clarkbarnes

[clarkbarnes]

Music to my Ears

Pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader

Prompt: Being Daily Planet's resident music journalist had its perks, such as having the resident beauty of a man be enthralled to hear your daily song recommendations.

Warnings: fluff, smut (oral fem receiving, fingering, dirty talk, praise, public(?) sex, panty stealing-ish, Clark is a good/bad boy), language, the weirdest assortment of song recs (bc what else do you expect from me?)

A/N: Soooo as you can assume, I saw the new Superman and became a lil obsessed, so here's my brain baby from that. Enjoy :)

"Ooh, late againnn," you hummed, watching Clark rush into the bullpen from your peripheral as you slipped your right headphone off your ear. "Second time this week and it's only Wednesday."

"Sorry," he huffed out, rounding the corner into the junction that held your desk next to his.

"Don't apologize to me, I don't give a shit. Perry, however, is a different story."

"Language."

You rolled your eyes and finally swiveled in your chair to face him as he placed himself at the edge of your desk. "You didn't seem to mind that language when I had you listening to Dead Kennedys last week." Your gaze dropped from his face to the paper bag he gripped in his hand. "That why you're late?"

A smile cracked across his face at the mention, reaching into the bag and fishing out a cinnamon roll sandwiched in-between a sheet of wax paper. "Payment for your song of the day?"

As the sole writer for the music segment of the Daily Planet's entertainment section, you were the go-to for all things of that variety— well, more like you spoke about the topic nonstop to anyone within your immediate vicinity, their willingness to listen not exactly a requirement.

Clark, however, seemed entirely enthused in your caffeine-filled ramblings (or, in the early morning and late at night, the lack thereof that was segmented between yawning spells). So enthused, that, despite the warnings from others, he actively sought to find out what song was playing on repeat in your bulky headphones. And it wasn't just for show, either. As soon as you sent him that Spotify link, he'd pop in his earbuds and bop his head to the song for most of the day, his lips mouthing the newly familiar lyrics towards the end of the work day.

You scoffed, taking the cinnamon roll from his outstretched hand and placing it beside your laptop. "You don't have to pay me, Clark. Your interest is enough."

"I mean, I can take it back-"

"No, it's mine, fuck off." You took in a deep breath and cleared your throat. "Besides, I'm not too sure you'll vibe with today's song." You tapped your phone screen on and pressed pause on the player.

"Aw come on. Like you said, I handled the Dead Kennedys just fine. How bad could it be?"

You pursed your lips in thought for a moment before shrugging and opening your phone, clicking share on the song and sending it to Clark's number. "Alright, if you say so. Touch Tank by Quinnie. Go nuts."

He smirked at you, one of those half-quirked smiles that barely showed a sliver of his teeth. One of those smiles that brought a rush of blood to your cheeks as you averted your gaze. As Jimmy walked past, he nudged your chair with his foot in a knowing manner. You kicked out and landed a soft blow to his shin.

***

The blue glow of your laptop was the only source of light illuminating the entire floor of the office, besides the soft yellow light that crept through the windows from the setting sun. You rubbed at your eyes, sluggishly tapping the down key on your keyboard to scroll over your article painstakingly slow. Everyone else was long gone, attending to their dinner plans or their families or, in Jimmy's case, whatever flavor of the month he felt like entertaining.

You, however, were hunched over in your ergonomic desk chair, frustrated to the point of catatonia as you tried to figure out just what wasn't working in your most recent draft that needed to be finalized and submitted by midnight tonight.

As the sun dipped lower and lower into the horizon, so did your attention span. Your jaw was set into a hard line, and a scowl settled comfortably on your lips. At this point, you were silently praying for some sort of alien-oriented catastrophe to take over so you had an excuse for the delayed article.

But all that came was the dinging chime of the elevator as the metallic doors parted, revealing possibly the last person you'd expect to see in the office so late.

"Clark?" you voiced, sliding your headphones off your ears to hook around your neck.

"Oh, hey, I didn't think you'd be here," he spoke, voice steady and sweet as honey.

"Neither did I," you sighed, craning your head to the side to pop your neck. "This article is bugging me and the office is the only place I can actually focus."

He hummed in sympathy, lips slightly pouted at the sight of your sleepy and disgruntled visage. "Well," he drawled, "I just came to grab my earbuds because I left them here, but I'm more than happy to keep you company." he settled into his desk chair and scooted over to you. "If you'd like."

"Oh, Clark, you don't have to do that. I'm not gonna be much fun to be around right now."

His eyes searched yours as he wheeled his chair in closer, sidling up just a few feet from you, his back facing the desk so he could look at you directly. "I can help."

You gave him a soft look, matching his pouted lip and furrowed brow as a silent conveyance of your gratefulness. "Frankly, at this point, I'd rather take some sort of distraction to get my mind off of this article for a few minutes." You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest. "And I know for a fact that you're very good at that."

He grinned, nudging the leg of your chair playfully. His teeth pulled his lower lip into its bite for a moment as he stared at you, visibly thinking for a moment. "A distraction," he echoed, as if tasting the words on his tongue.

As he pondered, you felt inklings of regret settle into your stomach. Whatever he was thinking of, it was not going to be good or helpful by any stretch of the imagination.

"Okay," he spoke finally, sitting up in his chair and settled his elbows on the arm rests, clasping his hands in his lap. "Did you know that the music you listen to tells me how you're feeling?"

You blinked once. then twice. Your brows furrowed. "What?" you spoke blankly, struggling to understand what he was insinuating.

"Every day you give me a song, and usually that song tells me what's on your mind. How you're feeling that day."

Maybe the way his sleeves were rolled over his forearms were distracting you, but regardless, his statement wasn't clicking in your mind. "I'm gonna need you to elaborate."

He chuckled, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he averted his gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "Like when Luthorcorp supplied weapons to Boravia, you were listening to Rage Against the Machine and Woody Guthrie the entire week."

You rolled your eyes. "Okay, but that's one situation-"

"When things were going good with that guy you were seeing a couple of months back, you were listening to Taylor Swift. When he dumped you, you had a two-week streak of listening to Mitski and specifically Liability by Lorde. When you'd accidentally hit a squirrel in the road on your way to work, you listened to Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens. Or, let's not forget about when you went out of state to visit the mountains and came back listening exclusively to crunchy folk music-"

"Okay, Superman, alright. I get it," you huffed, scrubbing your hands over your face to hide the slight embarrassment that bloomed over it.

That made him falter for a moment. "Superman?"

"Yeah, y'know, Superman has that like x-ray vision that helps him read minds?"

"I don't think it does that."

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you would know that." You cleared your throat and sat up in your chair. "Okay, fine. You can read my mind because of my music choices. What does that have to do with anything?"

That playful, toying smile crept its way back onto his lips. He sucked in a deep breath before tilting his head to the side. "Who was the song about today?"

At that moment, you felt all of your organs drop into your ass like it was a black hole. Gone were your lungs, your heart, your stomach and, apparently, your brain because all you could utter was: "Huh?"

His grin only got bigger. "The song you showed me today. Someone's gotta be on your mind for you to be listening to that song. So..." He scooted closer, his silhouette illuminated by the blue glow of your laptop. "Who's on your mind like that?"

You gulped, pressing your lips together as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. "Wow, Lois has really helped with your investigative journalism tactics," you coughed out, attempted to shimmy your chair away just a touch to escape the suffocating gaze that Clark held you under. It was no use, as the toe of his shoe was hooked under the leg of your chair, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"You're deflecting," he hummed. "C'mon, you can tell me. Is it Jimmy?"

"Jimmy?" you gasped incredulously. "That manwhore- no, god no. Frankly, I'm offended that you'd think that low of me."

He chuckled, and you realized that if you stared hard enough, you could see your reflection in his glasses. Flustered, nervous, you. You averted your gaze to the floor. "So then, who is it?"

You huffed. "Why does it even matter that much to you, Clark?"

With one swift movement, he pulled you closer by the leg of your chair, so close that your chairs were touching and your noses nearly were too. "Because..." His eyes searched yours as his breath shuddered. "If it's not about me, then I'm gonna have to work on losing my feelings for you."

You matched his shuddering breath, nails digging into the foam of your armrests. "And if it is?"

His hand reached out to loosen your grip, letting his fingers dance over the pulsing veins on your wrist. "Then I'll have to make good on that song, won't I?" He rose to his feet, leading you to stand with him. You gazed up at him, slightly awestruck, as he gently directed you over to your desk and perched you up on the ledge of it. "Show you how pretty I am when I go down on you?"

The breath that left your lungs came out in a nervous chuckle as you nodded. "I-I mean," you coughed out, eyes searching his as your fingers searched for purchase on the lip of your desk. "I wouldn't complain if you did."

He grinned, hands settling firmly on your waist as he ducked his head to capture his lips with yours. Immediately, you whimpered into his mouth, gripping so tightly to the particle board of your desk that you feared you might crack it. The warmth of his touch radiated through the thin material of your skirt as he kneaded the plush of your hips in his hands, thumbs skimming over your pelvic bones every few moments. Slowly, you loosened your grip on the desk to clutch onto his broad shoulders, feeling the strain of his shirt stretched so tightly over the muscle. As his hands worked you over, you felt like that flimsy fabric, stretched so tight and thin that you might burst at any moment.

The reach that you had to accomplish to grip onto him grew shorter and shorter as he gently sunk to his knees in front of you, eventually sliding up into the loose curls in his hair and tangling your fingers in the soft locks. His lips skimmed away from yours to trail down your neck and over the stretch of your sternum that was exposed from the cut of your shirt. As soon as his lips hit fabric rather than skin, he dropped fully to his knees and starting to bunch the material of your skirt up your legs and into his grip.

The second a glimmer of your legs caught the moonlight shining outside, his lips mouthed against the exposed skin. "So gorgeous," he murmured against the side of your knee, brows furrowed in what almost looked like absolute anguish. "Every last bit of you."

One of your hands skimmed over his face and cupped his cheek, cradling his face in your grip as he looked up at you. His hands abandoned the fabric of your skirt, deeming it bunched up enough, and settled them on the insides of your thighs, spreading your legs open for him to gain access. "You haven't even seen every last bit of me," you breathed out, just short of a chuckle, attempting an air of nonchalance despite the shake in your knees as his lips mouthed against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"I want to," he huffed, pausing for a moment to meet your gaze. "If you'll have me."

You gulped, absentmindedly tightening your grip on his hair as some sort of anchor into the present moment. "We'll see how you do here first."

Luckily, he caught the teasing edge to your voice, grinning as he nuzzled against your thigh. "Guess I'll need to prove myself." His hands, settling comfortably on the tops of your thighs, squeezed the flesh once as the tip of his nose found purchase against the soft cotton of your panty-clad mound. "Earn it." His lips puckered, pressing a soft kiss to the blooming wet spot on the fabric.

You restrained the squeal that bubbled in your chest, catching it in your throat and strangling it down into a weak whimper. He cooed along to your noise, smattering a few more kisses along the deep inner junction between your thigh and your heat and the sweet blue cotton that dressed your middle. His left hand made purposeful movements against your thigh, skimming up as his thumb traced directly along your femoral artery. His fingers made contact with the hem of your panties, toying with the lace edge as his thumb grazed along your covered clit.

As the fingers on his other hand landed in the same position on your other side, he began to hook his fingers under the fabric. "May I?" he whispered, gazing up at you dreamily. Your head bobbed in a nod, sitting up slightly to assist him in the shedding of your panties.

After the cloth made its way down your legs, Clark gently guided each of your legs to settle over his shoulders, the bend of your knees hooking over the broad expanse of flesh and muscle and your socked feet- with your docs abandoned under your desk hours ago- feeling his shoulder blades ripple underneath you.

The second your pussy was exposed, a shuddering sigh left his lungs and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Nervously, you yearned to lock your knees together and block your most vulnerable parts from his sight, but the position he placed you in prohibited you from doing so. You barely had any time to shift, really, as the moment his lust struck him back to the present, he dove deep and immediately began to mouth at your sticky folds. You two whimpered in unison, your hand fleeing from the side of his face to steady yourself on your desk. One of his hands fled from your thigh as well, rushing to his crotch to knead against the growing erection that bloomed in his pants.

His tongue slid through your folds with ease, gathering the essence of you on his taste buds and letting it sear into his memory. He worked desperately to lick you up, laving and sucking on your wet skin and drinking it down gratefully while your legs quaked around his head. Though he knew he could stay down there for extended periods of time without needing to come up for air, you weren't privy to such information, and you fought to keep your legs from collapsing around his head. You'd like to keep him around for a bit longer.

But, oh god, did he wish he could drown right now. Suffocate in the everything-ness that was you, the smell and the taste and the feeling of you engulfing everything that he knew, everything that he'd ever want to know. And the sound of your whimpers, your cries, your calls of his name reverberating off the empty marble of the office? It was the only thing he'd ever want to hear from now on. What was that phrase that his ma and pa used like it was going out of style?

Music to his ears.

He'd just been dazily licking and mouthing at your folds, slurping down your juices with his lids hanging low like he was high on you. But the second you tilted your hips up and his mouth chased after the movement, his tongue hooked over the sensitive bundle of nerves and it made a full-bodied wail rip through your chest as your knees squeezed around his head, he slipped from that hazy cloud and fell back into his body. His hand rushed to undo the buckle of his belt as he pointed the tip of his tongue and worked adamantly over the sweet bud that throbbed under his touch.

"Clark!" you screamed out, the fingers of one hand latching onto the lip of your desk while the fingers of the other curled into his soft raven locks and gripped tight. "Fuck, right there!"

He nodded, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he worked you over and finally worked the buckle of his belt off, tugging at his fly. The relief he felt as some pressure eased off of his hard-on made his eyelids flutter, burying his face deeper between your thighs and sucking your clit between his lips.

You whimpered, watching the way his glasses, askew and slipping down the bridge of his nose from his ministrations and your eager thighs wrapped around his head, began to fog up as he switched between panting and sucking fervently. As his droopy eyes flitted back to your gaze, you pulled your hand from his hair to press your index finger on the nosepiece of his glasses, gently gliding them back up the bridge of his nose. His hand that cradled the back of your thigh gave you an appreciative squeeze, kneading your flesh in his hand for a moment before it trekked over to your dripping heat.

He swirled the tip of his middle and ring fingers in the slick that soaked your skin while his other hand worked his cock out of his boxers. As his thick length sprung free from its confines, the soft fabric of your panties grazed against the back of his hand, resting where he gently placed them on his thigh to keep them clean and neat for you. While he laved at your slit and the tip of his dick tapped against the second-to-last button of his his white button-down, he let his fingers that weren't working against your skin pinch and rub the fabric. His deft fingers found the soaked gusset with a sense of almost urgency, barely able to restrain himself from feeling for that wet spot he'd just kissed minutes ago.

The thought that popped into his head made his movements halt for a moment, but as he continued, he picked up the panties from their resting place and positioned them in his grip with the opposite side of the gusset resting in his palm. Gulping, he connected the soaked fabric to the bottom of his shaft at the same time that he plunged his middle and ring fingers deep into your cunt. You both cried out simultaneously, instinctually pushing him by the back of his head deeper into your pussy. He groaned and whined into your skin, working himself over with your slick panties fervently.

At that point, pinned between the unending ecstasy that was you and the way he was fucking into your panties that he had clutched in his fist, all inhibition went out the window. "So good, honey," he cooed over and over as he matched the intensity of his fingers fucking you with his hand that was running over the length of himself.

You could only last a few moments of the barrage of fingers and tongue before you head to lean back on your desk, propping yourself up on an elbow. The position, however, allowed you to rut yourself against Clark's face more easily, which he seemed to greatly enjoy based off the way his brows furrowed, and he rewarded you by crooking his fingers up just right to nudge against the sensitive patch of flesh inside you. You squealed, throwing your head back as he continuously thrusted against that sensitive spot due to your reaction.

"Clark- oh my god- Clark I'm-" you stuttered out, unable to catch a moment of reprieve to form a sentence.

He didn't need to understand your words, though, based on the way your slick was dripping down his hand and your walls were gripping him so tight he debating commenting on if he'd get his fingers back any time soon. You were so, so tantalizingly close, and by the way his hips were meeting the thrusts of his hand, he was too. He nodded at you and sealed his lips around your clit, sucking on the bud and humming for added effect.

Your thighs quaked around his head and your back arched, and though you fought to keep his sweet and alluring cornflower eyes in your sight, as your orgasm sprinted closer and closer, your eyelids began to flutter.

"Let go for me, sweetheart," he encouraged, the vibrations of his words against your clit making you gasp. "Gosh, you look so pretty. Bet you look even prettier when you cum. Please, honey."

You nodded, rocking your hips against him once, twice, three times before the wave crashed over you. Your back arched, pushing your body deeper into his touch as you rode through the surges of pleasure that coursed through your body like electricity. Clark continued his ministrations as you made your way through your orgasm, working you over that edge until it neared overstimulation. Your hand fisted his hair, gripping on for dear life, and the tingle along his scalp made him creep closer to his own end.

As you settled down, his fingers retreated from your entrance and wrapped them around his cock, on top of his other fist. He lapped at your dripping folds and rocked his hips into the panties clad in his grip, muffling his grunts in your flesh.

Finally, as the last few drops of your orgasm dribbled against his tongue, he let go, panting and huffing as he moved to bury his face in the junction between your folds and your inner thigh. His hips stuttered irregularly as ropes of cum spilled out of his tip and into the soft and pliant fabric of your panties. Every few moments, when another desperate spurt leaked out, he bit down on your skin, leaving blooming little marks that marked his newfound territory.

Finally, he settled back on his haunches, hanging his head low like his eyelids as he sucked in gasps of air. You panted along with him, pushing yourself onto your elbows and then onto your hands, your head tilted back towards the ceiling.

Clark was the first to re-initiate contact, his hand gripping onto your calf and massaging the muscle he cradled in his touch. You dropped your head to look down at him still kneeling on the floor, and you saw that he was already looking up at you. Blinking slow, awestruck, the bottom half of his face still slick with you and he didn't seem to have any intention of changing that any time soon. You flashed him a small but loving close-lipped smile. His face split into a pleased and beaming smile, his pearly canines glittering under the light of the moon.

"So?" he hummed before gulping, his Adam's apple bobbing.

You bit down on your bottom lip. "So pretty," you cooed, cupping his cheek in your hand. "Even prettier than I imagined."

"I earned it, then? A date with you, maybe?"

You chuckled. "That and more, Clark." You ruffled his hair before moving your hands to unbunch your skirt from around your hips. "Okay, where are my..." Glancing down on the floor, you saw the item you were pondering the whereabouts of gripped loosely in his fist, soaked and glimmering with Clark's spend. "Oh."

Heat crept over his cheeks and up his neck and he noticed where your gaze was focused. "I'm- I-" He cleared his throat. "I'll wash them and give them back to you."

Part of you wanted to teasingly chastise him for stealing and fucking himself with your panties, but when you caught the way he was looking up at you like a sad little puppy, you decided to let it go. "Keep them," you shrugged. "In case you need them to tide you over."

He gulped and chuckled nervously, haphazardly tucking them into his back pocket before tucking himself back into his pants. As you fixed your skirt, he grabbed your boots from under your desk. Gently grasping your left heel, he guided your foot into the boot. "Your slipper, Cinderella," he teased, tightening the laces before tying them into a bow.

"Does that make you Prince Charming?" you hummed back, watching him with doe eyes as he slipped your other boot on.

"I sure would hope so." Once he finished up on your other boot, he rose to his feet, fingers tracing gently up your body until they settled on your hips. You tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, giving him a soft smile. He leaned in close, bumping the tip of his nose against yours. Your eyelashes fluttered, craning your neck in an attempt to press your lips against his.

"Yesterday's song," he murmured, lips barely brushing against yours as he spoke, but not yet fully touching. "Gold Rush by Taylor Swift."

"What about it?" you grumbled, growing impatient.

"Was that also about me?"

You paused, heat blooming across your cheeks as your gaze flickered to the floor. That earned a laugh from Clark, who finally relented and sealed his lips against yours. "Shut up," you huffed into his mouth, gripping onto his shirt collar and pulling him deeper into you.

***

Taglist: @jellybean000

[clarkbarnes]

Masterlist!

Hi! My name is Ana, here are all the works I've published recently

Clark Kent x Reader:

Always Rooting for You

Bucky Barnes:

A Shoulder to Lean On (This one is not x reader it is about Bucky and his sister Rebecca Barnes Proctor)

Feel free to request! No guarantees but I am looking to jump back into writing!

[clarkbarnes]

High Bids and Green Eyes

Summary: At a black tie disaster relief gala, you (a local meteorologist) finds yourself up for a charity “date” auction, and watches the bidding skyrocket when your ex-fiance Tyler Owens outbids a smooth talking donor to “buy” a conversation he should’ve had months ago. On a moonlit balcony, jealousy strips down to honesty. He still wants you, and this time he’s ready to do things differently. One taco truck detoury and a messy but tender reunion later, you choose a slower forecast for the two of you.

Warnings: Jealousy/Possessiveness Themes, Mentions of Alcohol, Past Breakup Angst, Mild profanity/Strong language, and Explicit Sexual Content (protected PinV intercourse)

Word Count: 6,058

Prompt + Pairing: “Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.” + Tyler Owens

The hotel’s ballroom has been completely transformed for tonight’s community galas. Glass and gold, donors in tuxedos, chandeliers throwing prisms of light across the marble floors. The relief fund logo glows across a giant screen. Names of surrounding counts scroll beneath it. You can pick out half a dozen places from the list that you’ve stood in with a mic and mud up to your ankles.

You hand your ticket to a woman with a clipboard and a warm smile, before tucking your clutch under your arm.

It’s the Disaster Relief Fund Gala. A black tie event held on by the city each year to help local communities affected by tornadoes and other natural disasters. Silent auction tables are lined with various items people had donated. Their prizes range from gifts certificates to local restaurants all the way to a brand new smoker somebody had donated.

But the main event is the date auction. The committee usually pics 3-5 notable singles and auctions off an evening with them. Highest bidder gets a date with the person of their choosing.

You start to make your rounds through the crowd. You smile and make small talk with the crowd. Your finger occasionally ghosts to the bare place where a ring used to sit on your left hand.

Your mind flashes back momentarily to the sight of Tyler on one knee in a backyard strung with Christmas lights in June. His smile so big. You standing there with a hand clapped over your mouth and then saying the easiest yes you’ve ever said.

Then another flash to just a few months ago. Suitcases by the door. Your voice steady as you told him that you couldn’t do a relationship with a ghost. Him reaching for you, but no saying anything. No promises that he’d do better. No asking for one more chance like you expected. But maybe it was better that he didn’t say anything. Your mind was made up, and it was too late for him to change. He was gone more than he was home and it just wasn’t working anymore.

You blink the thoughts away. You can’t think about him right now. You turn your attention toward the stage where the emcee is warming his throat, getting ready for the auction. A little ‘check one two” is said into a mic by a stage hand that pops through the room.

“Drink?” says a server with a tray of champagne. You take one and let the bubbles bite your lip.

You glance toward the silent auction tables again and that’s when you see him. Simple black tuxedo. Bowtie slightly loose. Hair held in place with just enough gel to look intentional. His signature cream Stetson is nowhere to be seen tonight. He’s posted by a sponsor table, answering questions from a man whose cufflinks probably cost more than your rent. Grant Riggs. Son of Marshall Riggs. The kind of man you’ll probably end up going on a date with because he’ll have a wallet deep enough to bid for it. Tyler nods along, patient, hands tucked in his pockets so he doesn’t talk with them the way he does when he’s excited.

His eyes catch on you. The pause is microscopic. Then he looks back to the sponsor. You look away first. Mutual avoidance, the cowardly gentleman’s agreement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee booms, “welcome, welcome, welcome! Tonight, we raise money for disaster response in our own backyard because when the sky turns, neighbors turn toward each other.”

First they have a few families speak. Families who were helped by funds from last year’s gala fundraiser. They remind everyone in the crowd of what the night is about.

And then it’s time for the auction and you feel your stomach start to tighten in knots.

“First up,” the emcee croons, milking the crowd just a little, “the woman who keeps us safe when the sirens sing! Chief Meteorologist at WKHY is offering a night out. Dinner with her at the Sky Room restaurant located in the historic Magnolia Hotel. I hear she’ll explain dew point in layman’s terms if the cap breaks.”

There some laughter. A few cat calls. You make your way onto the stage. You take your place by the emcee and wave like a homecoming queen to the crowd.

“Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars.” He says. “Do I hear one hundred?”

A hand pops up. “One hundred.”

“Two fifty?” he calls, and a different hand lifts. “Two fifty!”

“Three?” he tries.

“Three hundred,” says a woman.

“Five!” Grant Riggs calls out. He lifts his paddle casually like he’s hailing a cab. “Five hundred.”

“Five fifty!” The woman calls out again.

The room perks. The emcee’s grin widens by instinct as he turns back to Grant. “Six?”

“Seven fifty,” Grant says without waiting. He’s already turned his body toward you like the night is a foregone conclusion.

“Do I hear a thousand?” the emcee asks the air.

Somewhere in the back, someone flicks their paddle. 

“One thousand,” the spotter calls.

You squint into the lights to try and get a look at the bidder, but you can’t make out the face with the lights shining down on the stage.

The emcee then turns to grant. “Eleven hundred?”

Grant nods and the emcee turns to the woman who shakes her head. Then he turns his attention towards the bidder in the back.

“Do I hear one thousand two fifty?”

The unseen bidder holds his paddle up agreeing.

Grant laughs, seemingly delighted at this game of back and forth. “Fifteen hundred.”

The air changes. Your pulse ticks up in ways that have nothing to do with stage fright. The spotter points to the back again. 

The spotter shouts house “Seventeen fifty.”

“Two thousand,” Grant says as his smile tightens. He glances at you and then at the back. You can feel the crowd swiveling, trying to catch a silhouette between the pillars. The emcee’s eyebrows shoot up. He milks the pause like a pro.

“Do I hear twenty five?” he purrs.

The voice rolls out like a weather front. “Four thousand.”

The room does that soft, rippling gasp people do when something unexpectedly expensive or sexy happens. Heads turn. People on the edges stand to see who the bidder willing to pay $4,000 for a date with you is.

You don’t have to. You know that voice. You knew it in the dark with the windows rattling. You knew it at a kitchen table with a map open and coffee gone cold.

Tyler stands in the far aisle by the exit, paddle still halfway raised like he barely used any muscle to lift it. Bowtie undone. Grin nowhere. His eyes are on you and nothing else.

Grant exhales, amused and pragmatic, and folds. The emcee hammers his gavel like he’s always wanted to be that guy. “Sold. For four thousand dollars to Mr. Tyler Owens.”

Applause crests again. You make your face behave and shove down the thoughts and feelings racing through your brain.

“Thank you for your generosity,” the emcee says as you step off the stage.

The balcony doors are open to the night. You take the out without looking back. The city air slides cool against your bare shoulders, storms grumbling somewhere far enough off to be romantic instead of dangerous. Your phone buzzes with a notification you don’t check. Inside, the emcee rolls on.

You brace your palms on the stone rail and force yourself to focus on your breathing and not the fact that you’ll have to go on a date with your ex-fiance. A date he was willing to pay four thousand dollars to get apparently.

You hear footsteps follow you onto the background. You don’t turn to see who it is. You don’t need to. You’d know the scuff of his Lucheese anywhere.

“You could’ve let someone else donate,” you say, eyes on the far off flicker of the sky.

“I did donate,” Tyler says. He shuts the door softly behind him, giving the two of you some privacy. “I donated four grand in case you missed that part.”

You roll your eyes at the sky. “You donated to yourself.”

“I donated to the fund.” He stops a polite distance away. “And I bought time to talk to you.”

“Bought,” you repeat, sour on your tongue. Your fingers curl around the rail. “Right. Because jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you, and your…generosity.”

Silence, then a rough sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Jealousy’s got me by the throat tonight.”

“Congratulations,” you say, because petty is easier than honest. “You win. You don’t have to watch me smile at Grant over dessert.”

He steps up beside you, not touching you. But close enough that you can feel his body heat through the thing fabric of his shirt against your bare arms.

“That wasn’t what this was,” he says.

You huff. “No?”

“No.” He looks out with you, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, like he’s angling it for you and not for the room inside. “He spent fifteen minutes telling me what he was going to do on your date when he bought you. The way he said it…like you were a prize he’d one up me with and then unbox later.” His jaw ticks. “You’re not a prize to be won, and I wasn’t going to stand there while a man like that eye fucked you over a steak dinner.”

You blink. The word hits, ugly and exactly right. “Tyler–”

“I know you can handle creeps,” he says quickly, hands up like he’s preempting your argument. “You shouldn’t have to. Not on a night that’s supposed to celebrate you.”

You swallow, look down at your bare hand on the railing and then away. “I wasn’t…smiling at him,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

“I know,” he says. “You were smiling at the idea of a new Doppler unit if these people get out their checkbooks. You were smiling for the cameras because you’re a pro. I know the difference.”

Wind lifts a strand of hair against your neck. He doesn’t fix it. The restraint raises a memory of all the times he did. You catch yourself missing the small, domestic thoughtlessness of it and get irritated at your own heart.

“This isn’t about Grant,” you say, because it can’t be; if it is, you’ll never get to the real thing. “You can’t bid your way into dating me again Tyler. There’s a reason we broke.”

“A reason you called off the engagement,” he corrects. “And trust me I’m well aware of it. Because I was gone more than I was home.”

“And then ‘rarely ever,’” you finish, because if you’re going to do this, you’re going to use accurate terminology. “I wasn’t asking you to stop chasing. I was asking not to be engaged to a ghost.”

“I know,” he says. The words are clean. No defense. “I told myself it was a season. One more push. One more set of storms and then I’d slow down. I kept pushing the line. The line moved. And then I looked up and you were putting your ring in my palm like it weighed a thousand pounds.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t look at him. “You didn’t argue or try to get me to stay.”

He exhales. “I didn’t trust myself not to promise you something I couldn’t give. And I didn’t want to break another promise to you.”

“Are you going to promise me something tonight then?” you ask, still watching the sky, which is easier than watching his mouth when he’s honest. “Is that why you paid an absurd amount of money to take me to dinner?”

“No,” he says, and you feel him square himself. “I’m going to tell you what I’d do different this time if you give me another chance. And you can decide if it matters.”

You want to keep your shields up, but your curiosity turns its head like a dog that knows its name. “Okay.”

“My team’s not a one-man band anymore,” he says. “I split leadership. Dexter’s got full ops control on half the runs. Lily took over media planning. We’ve got two drivers I trust. I’m not required for the team to move anymore; the team can move without me.”

You flick your eyes at him. He’s looking at the horizon like a man reading a forecast. Careful and sure. 

“Okay that’s some logistics. But still doesn’t fix everything.”

“It’s not. But it’s a start, don’t you think?” He drags a hand over the back of his neck, stops himself like he remembers he’s in a tux and not a ball cap. “I’ve got a place two miles from your station. When the storms are slow. I’m there a couple days a week right now at minimum. I can keep that up. Give you a guaranteed two or three nights a week that are just yours. My phone goes off and I’m all yours. Storm or no storm.”

“You’re making it sound simple,” you say, because it isn’t. Getting back with Tyler will never be simple. Being with Tyler will never be simple.

But you hear him out because you want it to be and that scares you. It scare you how easily you want to believe him and give him a second chance.

“It’s not, he says. “But I’m starting to realize that I can’t control the sky. But I can control whether I chase it or not.”

The city breathes, that endless white noise. Inside, laughter pings off crystal. Out here, thunder mutters a county or two over. You keep your eyes on the dark line where the clouds lie heavy and think about mornings alone with a coffee cup gone cold. You think about loving someone whose body shows up but whose mind is already on a radar return three states away. You think about the way his hands steadied when he slid a ring onto your finger.

“I can handle storms and chasing,” you say finally. “I do it every day. What I can’t handle is you telling me you’re coming home and then not walking in the door.”

He nods like he expected the exact contours of that sentence. “Then that’s the line. If I’m gonna miss a night together, I tell you before you dress up for me. If I can’t make a night because of a chase window, I replace it with two. If I start to slide, you say stop. We stop. All I’m asking for is a chance here.”

It’s so practical you want to laugh, and the laugh catches on something fragile and becomes a sound that makes his mouth go soft.

“I miss you,” he says. He doesn’t load it with metaphors, doesn’t make it a vow. He says it like a fact he can’t sand down. “I miss waking up with your hair trying to kill me. I miss arguing about which storm is gonna break. I just miss…you.”

You close your eyes against the sting that sentence knows how to find. “Missing me didn’t make you stay.”

“No,” he says, quietly. “But it made me miserable enough to stop pretending I didn’t lose the best thing I ever had. I thought chasing and the team was the best thing I had going for me. It was a drug. But nothing compared to the feeling of seeing you walk out that door, and pull out the driveway. I can barely be in that damn house now because you’re not there. It’s why I got the place near the station. I couldn’t go home when I knew you weren’t gonna be there.”

You snort wetly. “Did you practice that apology on a cereal box?”

He huffs, looks half offended and half relieved that you still know his worst habits. “On the drive over, actually. The tux got the brunt of it.”

You let the smile have your mouth for one second. Then you set it down. “I don’t want to be bought.”

“You weren’t,” he says. “You can’t be. I bought a chance to ask if I can try again. If you want me to shut up and take my ‘date’ and shove it, I will. I’ll drive you home right now, and leave you at your door.”

“You’d do that,” you say, testing, because the man you left would have kissed you at the door and called it chivalry.

“I would,” he says. “And then I’d go eat a stupidly expensive steak by myself and try not to text you about the cloud base on the way.”

You laugh, helpless. It’s a small sound and it changes the pressure. He takes one careful step closer. “Can I…?” he asks, not quite reaching. “Touch your hand?”

It’s such a gentle ask it breaks you a little. You turn your palm up on the rail, and he lays his over it. His hand is warm, familiar as thunder in summer. He doesn’t lace your fingers. He just covers them like shelter.

“I can’t promise you I won’t feel that sick green when someone else makes you laugh,” he says, eyes on your joined hands. “I can promise I won’t punish you for it. I can promise I’ll say it out loud before it curdles me.”

“Jealousy isn’t the flex you think it is,” you say, though your voice has lost its teeth.

“I don’t think it’s a flex,” he says. “I think it’s a flare. Tells me where I’m failing. Tells me what I’m afraid to lose.”

You look at him then, finally, head-on. His bowtie hangs open; his eyes are bright with more than the ballroom. “What if I say no?”

“Then I take it,” he says. “I won’t chase you into loving me. As much as it will kill me not to, I won’t do that to you.”

“And if I say yes?” Your pulse ticks, traitorous. Your skin has already decided what your mouth hasn’t.

He smiles then, small and wrecked and hopeful. “Then we start with dinner I didn’t buy at an auction. And two nights next week that are yours. And we make a plan for storm days so you know where I’ll be when you fall asleep.”

Lightning walks its fingers through the far clouds. Close enough to light the edge of his face, far enough that you can pretend time is generous. You lean in before you can think yourself back. 

“Kiss me,” you say.

He does. Without hesitation. His mouth is warm and the sigh you make tastes like lime and relief. He doesn’t press you back against the railing; he leaves you the space to step away and the invitation to close it. You close it. His hand leaves yours to settle at your waist, steady and present; the other cups your jaw like it’s something he took an oath on.

When you break, it’s because breath insists. You keep your foreheads together. Inside, someone claps at a joke you didn’t hear.

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You slide your hand down his white button up shirt, feeling the heat underneath. 

“Take me to dinner,” you say. “Not the Sky Room though. Somewhere that doesn’t have an $80 entree.”

He lets out a laugh and looks into your eyes. “There’s a taco truck I passed on the way here two blocks over that looked pretty good.”

“Perfect,” you say, and when he reaches past you to open the balcony door, you let him.

Tyler takes a step back and reaches past you to open the door that leads back into the ballroom. You let him hold the door, and thank him as you pass him.

Tyler’s hand finds the small of your back, and he looks down at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

He guides you through the crowd of donors with that charismatic ease he’s known for. A quick smile here. A nod there.

At the elevator in the hallway he pushes the call button. The doors slide open in a soft hush. You step inside together, the mirror catching his tux and the dark emerald satin of your gown. Tyler presses the button for the lobby.

Outside, the night is warm and a little damp, the kind of air that makes your hair think about misbehaving. Tyler’s tux jacket goes over your shoulders without comment. He unlocks the truck, then braces a hand on the door and offers the other to help you step up. You take it because the step is high, that’s it. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. His palm is calloused and feels familiar against yours.

“Careful,” he murmurs as you settle. “This seat has a history of seducing meteorologists.”

“Tragic,” you say. “I prefer to be wooed by accurate models.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he says, circling to the driver’s side. “I’ve been working on getting some new ones running.”

He fires the engine. The cab smells like cedar, rain, a hint of gasoline that clings to men who live on the road.

Two blocks later, the taco truck glows. String lights haloing a cloud of cilantro and grilled meat. There’s a short line of people out front. Tyler parks then jogs around to open your door. He offers you a hand as you climb down.

At the window, the woman in the truck beams. “Owens! You bringing trouble or saving it tonight?”

“Neither,” he grins. “Redeeming myself, if I can.”

She eyes you, takes in the jacket over the gown, and softens. “Good answer. What’ll it be?”

“Two al pastor, two carne asada,” Tyler says, glancing to you for confirmation. “Extra onion, extra cilantro. And the green salsa.”

Tyler slides his wallet out of his back pocket. He hands over the cash for the meal and tells her to keep the change. Then you move to the right of the window while you wait for your food.

He leans against the metal siding of the food truck, and looks down at you.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he says.

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you point out.

He nods as he accepts the correction. “Thank you for the chance to.”

When the food’s ready, the foil packets are warm enough to sting through paper. He takes both and the two of you head back towards the truck.

“Your place?” He asks. “Only if you want.”

“I want.”

The words surprise you with how easily they come. You slide a hand under the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, hook a finger in the lining.

Back in the truck he hands you the food as he starts the truck.

“Address?” he asks, as he opens his phone and pulls up his GPS.

You rattle it off, and he nods. You notice he drives a little more careful than you remember. Careful on the turns. Respecting the speed limit.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other palm up on the console like an invitation that you can choose to take or ignore. You set your fingers in his as if no time has passed. His fingers curl slightly to gently hold yours.

“Two nights a week,” he says quietly, eyes on the road. “You pick.”

“Tuesday,” you say, absurdly decisive. “And Friday.”

“Tuesday and Friday it is.” He says it like a vow.

You pull up outside your building. The hallway smells faintly of laundry and someone's too aggressive lavender diffuser. He insists on carrying the food, which is ridiculous because your clutch weighs nothing, but you let him, because tonight you are practicing the art of letting the person who wants you show you that he does.

At your door, you fish for your keys from your clutch. You slide the key into the lock, then pause with your hand on the door.

“This is dinner,” you say, to draw the line and keep your intentions for the night clear. “Not…anything I might regret tomorrow.”

He nods. “Dinner. If you want me to go after, I’ll go.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll stay a little longer,” his mouth curves up. “Then I’ll still go when you decide you want me to. And I’ll be back here on Tuesday to pick you up for a date.”

With that you turn the knob, and lead him inside.

Your living room is the opposite of the ballroom: soft lamp, stack of weather journals on the coffee table, a throw with a hole the size of a thumb through the weave. He sets the tacos down, steps back to look around. You shrug off the jacket and drape it over a chair.

“Plates?” you ask.

“Napkins are fine,” he says, and then, because he’s learning, “unless you want plates.”

“Napkins are fine,” you echo, and hand him one. 

You take a seat on the couch, and he mirrors you. You eat with your heads bent over foil. The green salsa hits your mouth and your eyes widen. He grins, and reaches over to wipe a way a dot of sauce at the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Good?” He asks.

“The best,” you say, and he laughs.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence. You wiped the last smear of salsa from your thumb and et the napkin on the empty foil wrapper. Tyler leans back against the couch cushions, looking at you like he can finally relax.

“I should…change,” you say, flicking your eyes down at the gown. “Be back in a minute.”

He gives you a nod, and then begins to gather the foil wrappers from your dinner.

Once in your room, you kick off your heels with the grateful groan of a woman reclaiming her ankles. You reach back and tug the zipper at your spine. It moves an inch and then it get caught. You mutter to yourself and then try again, the tips of your fingernails sliding uselessly against the zipper.

You step to the doorway, fingers braced on the frame. “Tyler?”

He’s there faster than you expect. “Yeah?”

You angle your shoulder, lift your hair. “Zipper’s stuck...can you uh…can you help?”

Something flickers across his face. ”You sure?”

“I asked you, didn’t I?” You say with a small smirk.

He steps behind you. He carefully gathers your hair in one palm, and carefully moves it to the front of your shoulder. You feel the slow slide of his other hand, knuckles grazing the bare skin at the nape of your neck. The zipper begins to lower, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“There,” he says, his voice a little rougher than it had been before. To his credit, he steps back, and turns toward the hall. “I’ll…I’ll give you a minute.”

Your hand catches his wrist before he takes a second step.

“Stay,” you say, and the word is simple and enormous.

He goes still. You feel his pulse under your fingers, quick, honest. He turns back, eyes searching your face for doubt and finding none.

“I said dinner,” you add, “I didn’t say no to dessert.”

There’s a little bit of relief that breaks out over his features. “You’re sure about this, darlin’?”

“Come here, cowboy,” you say, and tug gently on his wrist.

You step backward into the room together, his hands hovering but not quite touching you. The dress loosens at your sides, and you hold the bodice in place with one hand while you reach for the collar of his shirt with the other.

He leans down and kisses you. It’s slow. Intentional.

“Shoes off,” you murmur against his mouth, because you are not about to have his muddy boot prints all over your bedding.

He laughs into the kiss then drops to the edge of the bed and toes off his boots. You let the dress slide off. The satin puddles at your feet and you step out of it. Tyler’s fingers begin unbuttoning his shirt until it hangs open, the white framing the tanned skin of him.

He’s on the edge of the bed knees apart. You climb into that space and swing a leg over his thigh, then the other, settling into his lap. His hands go to your hips almost on reflex.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and your mouth finds his.

This kiss isn’t careful anymore. He exhales into it like he’s been holding that breath for months, palms sliding from your hips to the small of your back, anchoring you closer. You roll your hips without thinking, the friction a bright, needy jolt. He lets out something that almost sounds like a groan as he presses his mouth along your jaw, down to your collarbones.

He kisses there like he’s memorizing it. Open mouthed, soft, then not so much. Teeth barely scraping before he soothes it with his tongue. 

Your head tips back on instinct, hands in his hair, shoulder blades bowing as he kisses the top swell of your chest. You rock again and feel him, hard under the fine fabric, the drag of his slacks and the heat of him through his boxers lining up perfectly with the ache you’ve been studiously ignoring since the balcony.

“God, I missed you,” he mutters against your skin, the words vibrating through your sternum. His thumbs stroke along your ribs, careful with the edge of your bra, waiting.

“Tyler,” you say, and it lands like a yes.

He answers by kissing the hollow at the base of your throat and reaching behind you. 

“Can I?” he asks, fingers hovering at the clasp.

“You can.”

He drops the bra to the side without looking away from your face. His hands come back, cupping you tenderly first, then a little One hand stays on your back, steadying you, while the other come up to cup your chest. Your breath hitches when his thumb skims over your right nipple. Your back arches into his touch. Your hips keep moving in small circles, and he meets you halfway. Thrusting up, and groaning when you grind just right.

“Too many clothes,” you murmur, tugging at his belt. 

The buckle answers with a bright little clink. He lifts his hips so you can work it free, your fingers shaking, laughter catching in your mouth when the leather finally pulls loose.

“Team effort,” he says, breathless, and then makes short work of the button and zipper. You help shove the tux pants down. The boxer briefs go with them, his cock springing free against the heat of your belly. 

He swears softly when your fingers wrap around him once, testing weight and pressure like reacquainting yourself with a tool you never stopped loving.

“Condom?” you ask.

“I don’t have one baby, wasn’t exactly planning on this,” he says.

“I might have some in my nightstand.”

He pulls open the drawer of your nightstand and moves his hand around blindly before pulling one out. He tears the packet before rolling the condom on his length.

“Your turn,” he says, eyes flicking down to your panties, and then back up to your face.

You climb off his lap and stand between his legs, hooking your fingers in the waistband. He helps, sliding the fabric down your thighs. You kick them aside and settle again, bare now, the heat of you slick against the latex and the muscle beneath it. He stills, hands wide on your hips, eyes dark.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, honest.

“You,” you say. “Now.”

You climb back onto his lap, your legs straddling him. His hands find your hips immediately. You reach between you, line him up, and sink onto him in a slow, deliberate push.

It’s a little rushed, a lot needy, the kind of joining that is half muscle memory and half this new promise. He fills you and you take him and the months apart collapse to a single, stunned beat of finally. Your hands brace on his shoulders; his forehead drops to your collarbone; you both ride out the first wave with laughter that sounds dangerously like broken prayer.

“Still fits,” he says, wrecked.

“Still yours,” almost slips, but you catch it with your teeth and turn it into a kiss that swallows the sentiment and transmits it anyway.

You start to move. Slow at first, then quicker, chasing the angle that lights you up. His hands guide without taking, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your hips, sliding you down, up, down again. The slide is messy and perfect. You’re already slick, the sounds of it shameless in the quiet room. He meets you with little bursts of his own, hips lifting, jaw tight as he groans your name like an apology and a vow all at once.

“Right there?” He asks when your breath turns sharp.

“Right there,” you bite out, rolling your hips to show him again. 

He gets it instantly, adjusts his angle, and it hits.

You brace your hands on either side of his neck and ride him. He can’t stop touching you. One hand on your back, one sliding to your breast, mouth open against your collarbone, teeth catching. You’re vaguely aware of the shirt still on his shoulders, the collar gone crooked. He tries to shrug it off and you laugh mid moan.

“Leave it,” you say, voice wrecked. “It’s doing something for me.”

His laugh breaks, turns into a groan when you clamp down around him. “Yes, ma’am.”

You change the angle, moving your knees a little wider. And the friction lands exactly where you need it. Your head tips back, an almost embarrassingly loud moan coming out of you. 

He feels it and goes still, palm cupping the back of your neck, eyes on your face.

“Don’t stop,” you say. “Please.”

He doesn’t. He gives you everything you asked for: steady, deep, then faster when you chase it. The pace turns a little chaotic, the rhythm messy, your bodies smacking, breaths syncing then fracturing. It’s not graceful. His hand catches your thigh, you slip, both of you laugh breathlessly, and it’s somehow more intimate than any sex you’ve had with Tyler before.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do.

“Tyler–” you warn, and he nods, thumb pressing into your hip, the other hand sliding between you to give you the nudge you need. Two strokes of his thumb. Then a third, and your orgasm hits hard enough to knock the air out of you. You clamp around him, cry out, and ride it out.

Tyler’s not far behind you. He swears through clenched teeth, hips stuttering, and just a few thrusts later and his release fills the condom. He holds onto you through the aftershocks. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other splayed over your back, holding you to him.

Your breaths start to even out. You ease off of him. He catches the condom, knots it, and tosses it towards the trash by your nightstand. Then he reaches for you, pulling you back in towards him so he can wrap his arms around you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Your palm rests over his chest, feeling his heartbeat come down under it. “You?”

He nods, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “Yeah. I—” He swallows. “I missed you.”

You drag your fingers through his hair and smooth it back, the old, ridiculous affection settling in like it never left. “I missed you being here,” you say. “Not just this.”

“I’m here now,” he says, simply. “And Tuesday. And Friday.”

You walk around to the opposite side of the bed and turn down the sheets before crawling inside. You pull the sheet up over you as Tyler slides in beside you. You tuck your feet under his calf, stealing his warmth. He drops a kiss to your shoulder and reaches past you to set his watch on the nightstand.

“Stay,” you tell him, even though he already is.

He smiles into your skin. “Gladly.”

Outside, thunder drifts farther off. Inside, you breathe together until the room stops feeling like a place where something broke and starts feeling like a place where something new is beginning.

[clarkbarnes]

Always Rooting for You

Summary: No one seems to think anything of your self detrimental comments but Clark is concerned

Warnings: jokes about killing yourself, self worth doubts, being yelled at

A/N: This is something that came to mind how Clark would help me with my intrusive thoughts about my self worth. I just feel like when others would brush off the jokes Clark wouldn't and he would take it seriously. I'm nervous to post this because it's quite personal but I'm hoping others can find something in this as well. You are so loved <3

It shocked Clark to his very being the first time you made a joke that if Perry didn’t go your pick your picture for the front cover you would kill yourself. The look on his face gave him away immediately, Jimmy explaining that it is just something you always joke about. How he wouldn’t believe what you said when the Metropolis Meteors lost a playoff game on a passed ball. He didn’t understand why everyone just moved on after you made that statement and how casually you said it.

Clark started noticing after that the low opinion you seemingly had of yourself. It was always said with a joking tone, how the photo opportunity was so perfect that anyone could have taken it when he knew first hand how much you worked to get the opportunity. Any compliment you would either brush off or give a quick thanks and then shift the attention elsewhere. Every time he tried to bring it up to Lois or Jimmy he struggled to put into words his worry.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. 

Over time you shifted from being a work colleague to being a friend to being in a relationship and yet Clark was still stuck. He didn’t know how to bring it up without you blowing him off like you always did when he tried to respond back to a jab you made at yourself. How not noticing a typo in an email didn’t mean you were stupid, it just meant you were human. You were the first to give others grace but the last to extend the same courtesy to yourself. What seemed to work was being. It all came to a head when you got reamed in the bullpen. Clark clocked it immediately. Your acceptance, how every good thing in the next few weeks would be diminished because of this one moment. When Perry finished yelling everyone was dismissed and Clark knew where you were going, there’s an empty office that has become the office’s safe haven when someone needs to really focus or just get away from the noise for a moment.Clark knew you were upset but the look of defeat on your tear stricken face made him feel like he just got punched in the stomach by ultraman. 

“I can’t do this anymore, I’m not made for this. This - this isn’t -. I can’t take it Clark”. You were gasping for air between words.

“Hey hey, match my breathing baby. Breathe with me”, he took one of your hands and placed it over his heart. He slowly saw you come back into yourself.

“I… I don’t know what to do here. I’m at a loss”

“Let’s not decide anything right now, the wound is still fresh.” Clark pulled you into him, you had confided in him when you first started dating how comforting his hugs were. “I don’t like how he did spoke to you in front of everyone. He could have easily pulled you aside and -” 

“I deserved it. I’m not good enough” 

“No you-”

“It’s true Clark! You don’t -”

Clark pulled back a little so he could see your face. “Sweetheart, your worth isn’t defined by this or any other misstep. You’re a talented photographer, you’re a talented person regardless of what you do. You have people rooting for you, I’m rooting for you. I’ll tell you everyday for the rest of our lives how loved you are.”

After he finished his impassioned speech he was met with silence and then you wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. 

“Thank you Clark, thank you”

[clarkbarnes]

clark kent x f!reader

synopsis: you'd like to hear clark curse.

"say fuck."

"no."

"say fuck, please?"

clark huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes before looking down at you. you return his gaze with wide blinking eyes, a symbol of feigned innocence and utter cuteness. it takes a lot of strength for clark to not crumble beneath that heavy load.

"why do you want me to say it so bad?" clark asks, curious and watches as you shrug.

"just want to hear how it sounds," you reply. "like i hear you say gosh and golly all the time. which is absolutely fine by me, i love the whole innocent farm boy thing you've got going on."

clark's ears turn a soft red as his cheeks bunch up with his amused smile.

"but i just want to hear it'd sound with your voice. and if it's going to be just as panty-dropping worthy as it is in my head."

clark's smile widens. "so you think about me?"

"slow your roll, smallville," you reply, smiling just as wide. "so what do you say? please say fuck. i'll give you $20."

"i literally can't be bribed," clark says, amused. "but if i was willing, i would require more than $20."

you eye him with playful suspicion. "what would your terms be?"

clark pretends to think about it, humming as he draws closer to you. he curls his arms around you, pulling a very willing you into his embrace. you steady yourself with your hands on his chest, peering up at him as you await his answer.

"a dozen kisses and three cuddles sessions," he says after a minute and you nod solemnly.

"plus the $20?" you ask and clark shakes his head, working you both into a gentle sway.

"it's never about the money. it's just about me spending time with my favourite gal and fulfilling her oddly specific desires."

"aw, aren't you the sweetest?" you coo, reaching up to cradle his dimpled cheeks. "okay, deal. a dozen kisses and three cuddles. now please say fuck."

"okay, sweetheart," clark agrees, clears his throat, and leans in until his lips are brushing against your slightly warm ear. your heart pounds loudly in your chest, anticipation rising as you await for the word to jump.

then clark says:

"ffffiddlesticks."

and cracks up to the point of tears as you push his bulk away with little success.

[clarkbarnes]

i had to

[clarkbarnes]

#reblog to support superman's huge ass

[clarkbarnes]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 *✩‧₊˚

synopsis: pt 2. to my one and only love, where Ben asks you to marry him.

pairings: Ben Grimm/fem!reader

warnings: none, just fluff!

tags: coffee date, proposal, meet cute, romantic fluff, established relationship, mention of Ben's late family (but like in a bittersweet way?), appearance from Reed, Sue, & Johnny, 2nd pov, no use of y/n.

word count: 2.0k

song inspo: "i love you, for sentimental reasons" by Nat King Cole

outfit inspo: the green one

(but trust i'm gonna use the other dress on there too somehow cause it's ADORABLE, artist credit in the image watermark!)

a/n: @clarkbarnes ask and you shall receive ♡ guys, i'm actually writing? and it's going well? and i have more ben stuff to post? soon? enjoy :D

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

After a much needed trip to a tailor, and a lunch with his aunt and uncle, Ben finally asked you. 

He dragged you to the other side of town to the quiet coffee spot that you had your first date at. 

It was a little shop a few blocks down from where his folks were buried. Cozy, warm, best cup of coffee he could get in New York. And the best cinnamon roll he’s ever had in his life.

Ben glanced at the cemetery as you two walked by it, his mind wandering back to the first time he’d seen you there.

He had been visiting his family’s plot on a whim. 

He’d stopped by to see his mom and brother, doing his best to avoid looking at his dad’s headstone while quietly updating them on his life. 

“Reed’s getting really close to getting us into space,” he said quietly, barely smiling to himself. “I think he’s gonna kidnap me once he’s got it done.” 

He wasn’t always overly fond of talking to headstones, it made him feel crazy at times. But, people said it helped to move through your grief, so he forced himself to do it anyway. 

He hadn’t even noticed you initially. Though, he became acutely aware when he heard you sniffling a few plots down. He tried not to stare, you were standing in a cemetery for God’s sake. But, he thought you were pretty. 

And he was a little excited when he saw you there a few more times.

You shared silent eye contact, awkward waves, hushed “good mornings”. Eventually, he got the courage to introduce himself, and he was beaming at the fact that you didn’t think he was being weird. 

The two of you didn’t get any traction until he went there one gloomy morning. 

He hadn’t visited as often as he wanted to, and the weather wasn’t helping. He definitely didn’t expect to see you standing there in the rain. 

Shivering, coat pulled up as high as it would go. 

Ben moved without thinking, umbrella tight in his grip as he came to stand next to you. He didn’t care if he got soaked as a result, he just couldn’t stomach the thought of you being miserable. 

You looked up at him as his umbrella shielded you from the downpour, relieved that it was him. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, hugging yourself as you looked down at the headstones in front of you. 

He hadn’t really noticed who they belonged to until then. Your mom and dad, gone, just like his. 

He didn’t dare move. He would have stood there the entire day if you needed. 

 “No problem.” He stuffed his other hand in his pocket, his eyes raking over your features. Just trying to make sure you were okay. 

The rain occupied the lapse of conversation between you, white noise as you stood in respectful silence.

After a while, you pressed the pads of your fingers to your lips, your shoes squishing into the grass as you bent down. Your fingers slid over the wet marble, the carved names of your mother and father each getting a kiss. You let your palm rest there for a moment, the warmth of your skin dwindling with each rain drop. 

They had been gone for a long time, which Ben hated to notice. 

His jaw tensed as you stood up, turning around to face him. You were standing close, close enough that he caught himself holding his breath. He told himself it was just the umbrella, but he wished it wasn’t. 

Your face softened as you met his gaze, rain drops sliding down your temples. Ben offered you a lopsided smirk, too caught up in his thoughts to realize that you were smiling at him too. 

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee or something.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to-“ he blurted, not wanting you to think he did this for something out of you. 

“No I insist,” you grinned, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. “This isn’t exactly the best place to get an in for a first date, so I’ll take what I can get.” 

His eyes widened. He’d never allowed himself to ask before, didn't feel it was appropriate to ask a girl out when she’s in mourning.

He couldn’t help the grin that formed on his face after a moment.  “I know a good spot near here.”

 “Perfect.” 

You two had sat in that shop for hours, in the exact same spot you were now. 

The set of chairs by the window that had seen better days, but that was the charm of the shop. Authentic character. Ben was just glad they seemed to handle his weight just fine, he might have cried if he couldn’t go to your favorite spot anymore. 

His hand was stuffed in his pocket even now, but for a different reason. He anxiously ran his thumb over the ring box, trying to shake the anxiety because you technically already said yes. But, even then, he found himself tapping his fingers against the table, abandoning his coffee a long time ago. 

He had mentioned his proposal plan to Reed and Sue, trying to get some help on the whole thing. 

Surprisingly, Reed was the calm one when it came to picking Ben’s tie that morning, Reed reassuring him that anything he picked would look dapper. 

Sue had to passive aggressively tell you to dress nice, made sure you looked as prim as you would want if you knew the occasion. 

Johnny threw a slight tantrum that he didn’t get to help with anything, so Ben promised he could pick up the cake from Maisie’s. He was satisfied enough with that. 

His only solace was watching you be just as effortlessly beautiful as always.

Ben loved your dresses. His knees buckled every time you bought a new one, he always insisted you showed them off, gave him a twirl. He loved the soft femininity you carried in everything you did. The way you picked your outfits and slowly made them into your own. Today was no exception. 

Green plaid gingham and pink accents, even the matching headband you were so excited about. It just made his heart swell knowing he was gonna marry someone so adorable. 

Well, he needed to actually do the damn thing before saying stuff like that. And he needed to ask someone before he finally got down on one knee. 

With one final breath, he gathered his courage through a fit of nerves.

“Stay here,” Ben stood, squeezing your shoulder as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Where are you going?”

“I gotta go get someone’s permission,” he smirked, loving the warmth that filled your face.

You watched him go a few blocks down, munching on your strawberry cinnamon roll as he disappeared into your place of first meeting. 

He had no idea why he was actually nervous about talking to a headstone. 

He knew your parents were watching over this whole day, as they always were. It was just something about walking up and asking for something so sacred. He didn’t want to mess it up. 

He fumbled through some weird small talk, shaking his head in frustration. After a moment of trying not to sound like an idiot, he found his words.

“I love your daughter a lot. I’m sure she’s told you about me plenty,” he sighed, pulling the box out of his pocket. “I know you both mean the world to her. And, I didn’t wanna do this without talking to you first.”

He found himself rambling about you for a while. He found some comfort in knowing he was talking to people who felt the same, people who shared this unconditional love for you. The longer he rattled off about how much he loved you, the more he felt assured in his decision. It helped scrape together the final piece of courage he needed. 

After spending a few minutes with his folks, he meandered back to the shop. He took you on a walk down to the seaside, his thumb running over the velvet box in his slacks. He was unusually quiet, you noticed pretty quickly. You thought it was incredibly endearing. 

When the two of you settled along the pier, Ben hopelessly listened to you talk about something, he didn’t really process what. Just trying to breathe through the pounding heartbeats in his ears. Your hand was so tiny in his now, so soft and delicate, he couldn’t help but hold it every chance he got.

He knew he was procrastinating, waiting for the right moment that never seemed to actually come. Luckily, he got an impatient message on his watch. 

Hurry up, I wanna eat the cake -JS

Ben just rolled his eyes, squeezing your hand one more time for a little reassurance. 

The biggest grin formed on your face as he got down on one knee beside you. One hand holding yours, the ring box in the other. The second he got situated and looked up at you, he had less of a grasp on the English language than Johnny. 

The sea breeze caught your hair, blowing it out of your face. The sun shone on your skin and brought the perfect glow to it. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, showing just how much you smiled, his heart warming at the fact that he was the reason for some of them. 

You were genuinely the most perfect human being he’d ever met. 

Whatever he did to have someone like you in his life, he’d never know. 

In the least eloquent way possible, Ben told you how much he loved you, how much he loved being with you. He lulled halfway through, letting out a long sigh and complaining about how poorly this was going. You shook your head, reassured him that he was doing great. He loved you even more for that. 

He seemed to forget the speech he had practiced in the mirror for weeks, and after fumbling through a few thoughts, he just went for it. 

“I love you so much, and I really wanna marry you,” he breathed, opening the box with one hand. He just needed to hold your hand through the whole thing. He thought he would freak out if not. “Would you do me the honor of marrying me?” 

Your cheeks were starting to hurt from how hard you were smiling. You nodded before he even finished his sentence, a burning excitement running through your veins as he gently put the ring on your finger. 

It was a gold band, timeless and elegant, a few intricate flower engravings wrapping around it. 

You quickly grabbed either side of his face and crashed your lips into his, Ben chuckling between kisses as he shoved the ring box in his pocket again. He pulled you nearly flush against him as he stood up, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

You giggled as a few people who happened to be nearby started clapping, your nose nudging against his as you pulled away. Just enough to look at him. 

You made him feel like the only man on the planet. Like he was someone worth all the love in the world. Like someone who deserved it. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ adorable,” he beamed, pressing his lips to yours hard, picking you up off the ground. 

You tried not to laugh as he spun you around, arms locked around his neck as you kissed him again and again and again.

The two of you had a very warm welcome back to the Baxter building. Hugs and cake, Reed giving Ben shit for forgetting everything, Sue teasing him for doing the same exact thing. 

“He barely got through the actual question,” she snickered, laughing with you and Johnny. 

Ben was attached to your hip for the rest of the night. Always touching you in some way, or holding your hand in his. 

He just couldn’t believe he was gonna marry the love of his life, or that he even found you in the first place. He still couldn’t believe that you could love him when he was like this.

But, with the way you looked at him, the way you still looked at him with the look of love, he started to care a little less about the thing he had turned into.

[clarkbarnes]

Please Don’t Stop Loving Me

Summary: After a tense night at the bar, you and Jake end up back at his place, still simmering from something he said in front of the squad. The fight carries over inside, sharp words and stubborn silence giving way to a real apology. Jake’s not one to back down, and he’s certainly not letting you go easy.

Warnings: Arguing/Relationship Conflict, Strong language, Explicit Sexual Content.

Word Count: 1,718

Prompt + Pairing: “Please don’t ever stop!” + Jake “Hangman” Seresin

The ride back from the bar had been silent, except for the hum of the tires on asphalt and the faint clink of the keys Jake kept rolling between his fingers. You’d kept your gaze fixed out the passenger window, the streetlights flashing over your face as the tires rolled on the asphalt.

By the time you got to his place, the quiet had turned heavy. You dropped your bag by the couch without a word and kicked off your shoes. He locked the door behind you, tossed his keys onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice too even to be casual.

You didn’t look at him. “You really don’t know?”

His brows drew together. “I made a joke–”

“You embarrassed me,” you cut in, sharper than you meant. “In front of the entire squad.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t meant like that.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it landed like that,” you shot back, folding your arms.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “So what, you’re gonna stay mad all night over nothing?”

You exhaled. You were too exhausted to have this fight right now. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Jake stayed where he was, leaning a shoulder against the wall. His hand flexed on the doorframe like he was holding himself in place. You could feel him watching you from across the room.

He finally spoke, quieter this time. “I’m not going to leave it like this.”

Jake pushes off the wall, his boots slow against the hardwood as he crosses toward you.

“Alright,” he says, the word drawn out. “I’m sorry.”

It’s too quick. Too easy. Like tossing a bandaid over a bullet wound. You lift your head, meet his eyes, and see nothing but stubbornness in the set of his jaw.

“No, you’re not,” you say flatly.

His brows knit. “I just said–”

“You’re not apologizing because you’re sorry,” you cut in. “You’re doing it because you think it’ll fix it. Because you think I’ll just…drop it.”

His lips part like he’s about to argue, then close again. He exhales through his nose, trying to keep his temper in check. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Too late,” you mutter, turning toward the hall. “You know what, just forget it. I’ll call an Uber, go back to my place.”

You barely make it two steps before his hand finds you. His fingers curl enough to keep you in place but gently enough to not cause you pain.

“Hey.” His voice isn’t sharp this time. It’s lower. Calmer. Stripped of the bite from before. “Will you just stay? Please. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

You keep your arms crossed, chin tilted just enough to make it clear you’re not folding easily. “And why’s that?”

“Because I don’t like being away from you. I just…want to make it right.”

You turn your back on him, arms crossed, the words spilling out before you can think better of it.

“You can’t make it right, Jake. You don’t even think you did anything wrong. That’s why you won’t apologize. You can’t put your stupid ego aside for five fucking minutes to see that you hurt me.”

For a beat, he doesn’t move. Then you feel the shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of him stepping closer. His arms come around you from behind, slow but sure, locking you against him.

You push at his forearms, not hard, but enough to test if he’ll let go. He doesn’t. His hold just tightens, his chin brushing the top of your head.

“Don’t walk away from me like this,” he says, voice low, rough in a way that has nothing to do with anger.

“Then let go.”

“No.” His chest rises against your back as he exhales. “I’m sorry.”

You still at the words. They’re softer this time, stripped of the throwaway tone from before.

“I’m sorry for what I said, and for making you feel like it didn’t matter,” he goes on, his breath warm near your ear. “It did. You do. And I was an ass for brushing it off.”

Something in you loosens, just a little. You don’t turn to face him, but you stop fighting his arms around you.

He takes the opening, pressing a kiss into the curve of your neck. It’s hesitant, like he’s asking permission without saying it.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs against your skin, and before you can answer, his mouth moves again, finding that spot he knows will melt you no matter how hard you try to hold on.

His breath is warm, his stubble scraping lightly with each kiss as he works down the side of your neck. His hands flatten over your stomach, holding you still when you shift like you might escape.

“Not fair,” you manage, though your voice has already softened.

“I wasn’t going for fair,” he says, his lips trailing lower, lingering at the base of your throat. “Just effective.”

You feel your defenses slipping with every unhurried kiss, every squeeze of his hands like he’s reminding you he’s there, and not letting go until you let him in.

When you finally turn your head to tell him to stop, his mouth catches yours instead. The kiss is warm and deep, all the leftover fight burning away under the heat of it.

You break the kiss, breath sharp. “You can’t just fuck your way out of this, Jake.”

The flicker in his eyes is part challenge, part something deeper. “Wanna bet?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he spins you, the wall cool against your back. Your breath stutters when his thigh slides between yours, solid and deliberate. The friction is immediate, dangerous.

Your palms press to his chest, but it’s not quite a shove. Not quite surrender, either. “Jake–”

His hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you aware of how close he is. He leans in, mouth grazing the line of your jaw before you can say more. 

“Don’t talk,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me make you feel good, baby. Then you can be mad at me later.”

You swallow, but the protest dies when his lips find that spot just under your ear. The scrape of stubble from his five day old beard, the heat of his breath…it all frays your resolve.

“Jake…” It’s meant to be a warning, but it comes out more like a gasp.

He smiles against your neck. “Yeah, keep saying my name like that.”

Your grip on his shirt tightens. You give in. The shift is instant, his mouth slants over yours again, hungrier now, and your hands are sliding under the cotton at his back, nails dragging lightly over skin.

He groans into the kiss, and it sounds like a victory. “God, you’re so hot when you’re all worked up,” he mutters between breaths, like he can’t stop himself from saying it.

Clothes start to vanish without either of you thinking about it. His shirt is pulled over his head, and yours is tugged free in return. He nips at your lower lip, hands firm on your hips, drawing you against him until there’s no space left.

You barely notice when he bends and catches you under the thighs, lifting you with ease. Instinct has your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms looping over his shoulders. He carries you through the short hall, mouth never leaving yours for more than a breath.

The bed catches you both, his weight settling over you. It isn’t dominance. It’s immersion. Every inch of him is committed to every inch of you in this moment. His hands frame your face as he kisses you again.

When he finally slides into you, the air leaves your lungs in a rush. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes locked on yours as his hips find a slow, steady rhythm. The earlier edge between you dissolves into something more fragile, more necessary.

Your breath hitches with each movement, his name slipping from your lips without thought.

“Please don’t ever stop loving me,” he murmurs, the words raw, almost a plea.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your chest aching for reasons that have nothing to do with the way he’s moving inside you. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whisper, and his eyes close like that’s the only thing holding him together.

The pace builds, not rushed, but insistent. He kisses you like he’s chasing that promise, like every movement is part of sealing it. You feel it when the line starts to blur. Between anger, forgiveness, and need…until there’s nothing left but the two of you, moving together until you can’t think past the heat and the sound of his voice in your ear.

When release finally hits, it’s all encompassing, and he’s right there with you, catching your mouth in a kiss that’s more relief than hunger.

He stays close, his body still braced over yours, one hand brushing damp hair from your face. 

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, quiet enough that it’s more hope than demand. “I”m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. But please don’t leave me, baby.”

You press your lips to his chest. “I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not ever.”

His arms tighten around you, the motion instinctive, pulling you flush against his chest. You go willingly, settling into the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The sweat cooling on your skin makes you shiver, but his body heat is enough to keep you warm.

You let your fingertips wander lazily over him, tracing idle patterns along the hard lines of his chest and shoulder. He doesn’t move, just lets you draw on him like you’re mapping something only you can see.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, though his eyes stay closed. “Still mad at me?”

You huff a quiet laugh, tilting your head to rest it in the crook of his neck. “Ask me in the morning.”

He hums, the sound low and satisfied, and pulls the blanket higher over you both. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you here ‘til then.”

OTHER AUGUST PROMPT FICS:

Glen Powell (RPF)

Make You Mine I Hands Under Water I Heartfirst

Tyler Owens (Twisters)

Bandaged and Bare I The Parts You Don't Remember

Jake Seresin (Top Gun: Maverick)

Such a Tease I Not So Mouthy Now

Mark Reynolds (The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society)

Better Than My Dreams I Can't Get Enough

Charlie Young (Set It Up)

After Hours

[clarkbarnes]

Superman (2025) — dir. James Gunn

[clarkbarnes]

Ask Me When You Come Back

Pairing: Ben Grimm/Reader

Summary: Ben and reader talk the night before his big trip to space. Ben and reader talk the day he gets back from space. 

Word count: 2k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, capital F. Some suggestive material. Reader is she/her. Approximately two uses of y/n. Reader is college friends with Ben, Reed, and Sue. 

(My first fic EVER. Longtime x reader enjoyer, first time poster. I LOVE BEN GRIMM!! Decided to escape lurking to add to the tag. My man needs more content. Might post some John Walker x reader as well, but Ben has been clogging my arteries. NOT proofread teehee :D Thank you for reading!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you remember the night we met?” Ben spoke softly, playing with your hair as you laid across his chest.

“Of course, I do.” Your eyes were half-closed and voice muffled from his chest. 

Neither of you could sleep. Tomorrow he would be heading off into space for who knows how long.

You always loved his drive for exploring and flying, but you couldn’t help but feel upset about this whole adventure. Your closest friends would be with him, one being the smartest guy in the world, which made you feel a bit better.

He was so excited for this, so you were too. 

But as the day drew nearer, a quiet change happened. You both slept closer, held each other tighter, and much like tonight - stayed awake longer. 

When he didn’t respond you propped yourself up with your hand and faced him. He didn’t stop playing with your hair, only adjusting his hand as you turned. You followed his eyes to where they were fixed on the ceiling. “Reminiscing about the good ole days?”

He smiled before lowering his eyes to yours, moving the hand from your hair to cup your face. “Somethin’ like that.”

You just stared at each other for a while, comfortable in the silence. His thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. 

“We should sleep.” You broke the silence after a particularly long yawn left you. 

“I know. But I don’t want to.”

“Ben Grimm scared to go into space?” You scoffed before sarcastically responding. 

He smiled again. “I’m not gonna see this beautiful face for a while. Just want to take it in a bit longer.” His smile remained, but his eyes softened. 

The sincerity melted your heart. You could feel tears forming and quickly shifted your focus to the nightstand. “Reed won’t let you bring the locket with you?” You traced your hand across his chest while reaching for the small golden necklaces placed on top of each other. Each having a photo of the other in it. 

Ben kept his eyes on you as you fiddled with the dual lockets, intent on memorizing every feature before the night was over. “Even if Reed said no, you know I’d sneak it up there.” His hand went back to your hair, twirling it between his fingers. “I really prefer the real thing, though.” 

You chuckled and tossed the necklaces back to their resting place, intent on making the most of this final night with your astronaut. “Oh yeah? You really gonna miss me that much?” Your fingers traced his chest again.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He leaned forward, closing the gap between you and moving both his hands to cup your face.

You matched his lean and kissed him. His hands stayed on your face, occasionally moving your hair behind your ears as it got more heated. You kissed him like you would never be able to kiss him again. The thought flickering in your brain for a split second and taking hold of you.

'What if he doesn’t come back?'

You forgot how to breathe for a moment, heart racing, and tears forming again. You had to pull away. 

“Why’d you ask about when we first met?” You both breathed heavily, his eyes slow to open, desperate to keep kissing you. 

He took a moment to compose himself, “Because that was the night I told Reed I had a crush on you -” 

“Aww, you had a crush on me!?” You couldn’t help but interject, smiling at the thought of him liking you before you even officially met.

He smiled back at the teasing, “Yes, of course I did. And actually, Sue knew long before I told anyone.” 

This wasn’t helping get rid of the tears forming in your eyes.  

“Anyways, I told Reed and he was like, oh, interesting, Sue was right, and -” Ben paused to laugh, “and, he was just so nonchalant about it, and went right back to whatever he was doing. Of course, you were talking to Sue that night and, you know, she invited you over and -” 

“That explains why she was so insistent we met.” You interrupted again, putting the pieces together in your head. “Sue was playing matchmaker the whole time! Here I thought she was actually trying to get helping hands for my final project.”

“Right, yeah, sorry sweetheart. I still don’t actually know anything about botany, I just wanted to be close to you.”

You both giggle at the memory, but Ben goes soft again. “That’s not why I brought it up though.” He paused and you felt the heaviness on your heart again.

“See, before Sue brought you over we were just watching the two of you talk because, well, yeah - anyways, I told Reed and he just said whatever basically and then Sue said something to make you laugh. And I just knew. I told Reed I was gonna marry that girl one day.” He still had a faint smile from the memory, but his eyes were serious.

You paused. Eyes blinking for a moment at the realization of what he just said. You felt a tear roll down your cheek. “Ben…”

He brushed the lone tear away with his thumb. “Will you marry me?” 

You chuckled and smiled away the formation of more tears, “Ask me that again when you land.” 

Ben’s face dropped and he furrowed his brow slightly, sensing the lightheartedness in the response. “Wait, is that a no?” 

“No, it’s a reason for you to come back safe and sound. You come back down here and ask me again when you get home.” You gripped his face and tried your best to sound authoritative, but his wide eyes were just so cute. 

“Ohh, I see how it is.” He moved your hand off his face, “Waiting for me to leave the planet to move on instead of just breaking it off.” He smiled as his hands wandered down your body.

“Maybe.” You teased, letting his hands pull you onto his lap.

“Well, in that case, maybe I need to do something to convince you it’ll be worth the wait.” 

You were fully on him now, hands wrapped around his neck. “Oh yeah? Well it’s getting late, tough guy, better make it quick.” You bit your lip at the neediness in his gaze.

“I don’t think I can do that, sweetheart.” You yelped as he flipped you over. “I don’t want to risk losing you.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You fiddled with the locket around your neck as more and more people rushed throughout the halls of ANSA headquarters. They had only been gone two weeks when the cosmic radiation cut communications with the team. ANSA finally got a reading on the spacecraft late last night. They were close.

He was almost home.

Hopefully.

Since the first sign of distress, you’d been here. Pacing the halls, asking anyone who looked at you if there was any news. The hope was that the radiation just interfered with the signals and everything was fine. Deep down you knew there was more to it though. Especially with how frantic everyone seemed. 

Touchdown was hours ago, or at least that’s what it felt like. You didn’t see any of them get off the ship, too many people blocking your view. Before you knew it everyone was rushed to different ends of the facility’s medical wing. Nobody would say anything, but your heart sank when you saw two people in full on hazmat suits exiting a set of doors. 

It was in the name after all, cosmic radiation, couldn’t be too careful.

You found a chair unoccupied among the chaos and sank into it. The exhaustion finally catching up to you as you sank down. You undid the chain behind your neck and stared at the image inside the locket. Ben’s portrait in his space suit, smiling in front of an image of the moon. You remember that day like it was yesterday. How handsome you told him he looked in the suit. How proud he was to be apart of something like this. You smiled at the thought before softly sobbing into your hands. 

You didn’t realize you nodded off until a hand gently rustled you awake. The locket was still clenched into your fist, leaving an imprint on your palm. Before you even checked who it was that woke you, you rubbed the long-dry tears from your cheeks, trying to compose yourself.

“Oh, honey…” The familiar voice of Sue Storm made you jump to your feet immediately. Your best friend was standing before you in a set of ill-fitting scrubs. 

The tears came flooding back out as you lunged at her for a hug. “Sue!” Another sob. “What happened?! Are you okay!? Where’s -” 

“y/n…” Reed spoke softly behind you, interrupting your thoughts and forcing your gaze behind you. 

You shifted with Sue, not wanting to let go of her, but still wanting to see another familiar face.

“Reed, you two are okay? What about Ben? Johnny?” 

Reed averted his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, lowering his head slightly. “Thanks for mentioning me, y/n. I know I’m the fifth wheel, but it’s nice to be remembered.” Johnny interjected before Reed could speak.

You were firmly discombobulated by now, head shifting between your three friends. You had so many questions and no one seemed willing to answer. 

As you went to pull away from Sue and properly face the others, she held you once more, but tighter. “We’ll explain everything later.” She pulled away this time. “He needs to see you first.”

Your heart sank. “Is he okay?” 

Sue nodded. “He’s okay, but… he just needs to see you, y/n.” 

You furrowed your brow at her, wondering why she was being so cryptic. Scanning the men's faces didn’t help either. Reed could barely meet your gaze and Johnny was unnervingly deadpan. 

“Okay... where is he?”

Sue led you down the hall, hand in yours as the two boys followed behind. She stopped a bit before the door and nodded to you, flashing a soft smile. You gulped hard. 

‘Is he only a torso in there? Did he lose all his limbs? Was he covered in radiation burns and blinded or deaf or mute or all of the above?’

Every thought imaginable ran through your head about what was waiting behind that door. Every scenario, of course, but the one you actually saw as you peered through the window on the door.

A hulking orange figure was sat on the edge of the exam table. 

You carefully entered the room, eyes wide at the sight before you. An attempt at an appropriately sized medical gown was crudely thrown together for the figure. 

His head was bowed, eyes fixated on the floor, seemingly ignoring or not noticing the footsteps approaching. 

“...Ben?” You stepped further in, peeking your head around to try and get a glimpse of the figure’s face. 

His head slightly perked up hearing your voice, he was still withdrawn and trying to hide himself from the shame. “Yeah... It’s me, y/n.” His voice was soft and low, but distinctly still your Ben.

All you could do was sob as you leapt towards him. You didn’t care if he was any of the hundreds of scenarios you thought up, as long as he was still your Ben. 

He jumped at the reaction, holding his arms up and away from you, unsure of how to hold you.

You sobbed again. Harder than ever. “Oh, Ben, I thought you were dead…” You muffled against his gown. You were too caught up in emotions to realize in the moment how his skin was so rough even through the gown material. 

Hearing you sob made Ben tear up himself, deciding it was worth it to cradle your head as gently as possible to try and soothe you. “Shh, sweetheart, shhh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m … okay.” He hesitated, but with you in his arms, he did feel okay. He felt safe and loved and like he was still Ben. 

Your hands cupped his face without a hint of restraint and forced him to meet your eyeline. Seeing his beautiful blue eyes sealed the deal for you. This was your Ben. “Are you okay? What the hell happened up there?” You managed out between sobs. 

He carefully moved his hand from the back of your head to mirror your face cupping. “I’m okay now, sweetheart... I’ll let Reed explain the rest later.” He rested his head softly against your shoulder. “Right now I just need you.” 

You nuzzled back into his gown and wrapped your arms around him. Sure he was a bit… rougher than you were used to, but it was still him. That’s all that mattered to you.

You two held each other for a while, comfortable in the silence, before you interrupted it. “Please stay on this planet for a while, Benjamin. For my sanity. Please.” You chuckled, voice still stuffy from crying. 

He laughed too, the same laugh you fell in love with, and everything felt okay again. “I promise, sweetheart. Boots on the ground for all of us for a while, I think…”  He trailed off, gently adjusting his weight. “y/n…”

You pulled back, still holding him, but face to face now. It was still easy as ever to get lost in his blue eyes. “Ask me.”

He furrowed his rocky brow, “What?”

“I told you the night before you left to ask me again when you land. You landed. So ask me.”

It all clicked for him as he sat before you, wide eyed and astounded. “You still want to? Y/n, I wouldn’t blame you if -”

“Stop.” You put a finger to his lips, moving to caress his cheek, “I love you Ben Grimm. If you thought turning into a rock would get rid of me that easy, you’re going to have to try harder.” 

He smiled wide and grabbed your arms. “I love you so much.” You both leaned in, resting foreheads together, “I didn’t think it was possible to love you more.”

You giggled and pulled away a bit. “Actually, can you wait to ask me when you’re wearing real clothes… and when your family isn’t watching through a window.”

Ben pulled back, brow furrowed again, and glanced at the door. Three peeking heads dodged out of frame as he did. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “They’re lucky we love them.”

You smiled and leaned in, closing your eyes for a kiss.

“Wait, y/n, uh -”

“Ben Grimm nervous to kiss a pretty girl?” 

He smiled back “Absolutely not.” 

You leaned back in and pressed your lips to his, ignoring the chatter outside the door.

It was different for sure, but still good. 

Still Ben.

[clarkbarnes]

"by the way, i like your dress"

"i thought you would"

reference / study of: J.C. Leyendecker "Couple dancing"

[clarkbarnes]

the necklace ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader! Word count: 2.2k

Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.

This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink here

Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, he’s sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)

Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees 🙂‍↕️ currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing it🫶🏼

Masterlist

It started as a joke, really.

You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?

Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and he’d still act like it’s the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.

So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You weren’t sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at it’s window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.

There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic ‘S’ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.

“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.

Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.

You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.

If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.

And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.

Because he ended up loving it.

Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.

“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.

Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.

Because his girl got it for him.

In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.

And Clark? he adores it.

He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.

You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.

You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.

But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.

When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.

It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.

And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.

“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.

“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”

And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.

Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.

And this is only your second round.

“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.

“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.

So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.

He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.

And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.

He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.

He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.

It’s driving you crazy.

“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”

He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.

“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.

You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.

Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.

Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.

So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.

“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”

You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.

“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.

Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.

Especially after the whole necklace moment.

“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”

He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.

But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.

Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.

But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.

“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“

“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”

He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.

And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.

He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.

“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”

Neither are you. You never do with him.

You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.

“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.

He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.

He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.

Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.

He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.

Superman needs to catch his breath.

You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.

“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.

Because it’s usually the other way around.

“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”

He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.

“You put it in your mouth.”

“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.

“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”

“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.

He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”

You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.

[clarkbarnes]

Ruined

clark kent x reader

t/w: sex pollen trope, Explicit Sexual Content (18+; mdni; multiple detailed scenes), overstim, desperate/rough sex, soft!dom clark, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Possessiveness summary: After a LuthorCorp lab exposes Clark to an experimental mist, he tries to fight the heat clawing through him—but you don’t let him. You take everything he gives you. And when the storm breaks, you pull him back from the edge—still aching, still open, still his. 8.4k words

The LuthorCorp lab is colder than it should be.

That’s the first thing you notice. How the cold clings to your skin, thin and wet like a film you can’t shake. The air stinks of scorched wire and industrial rot, the metallic tang so thick it coats the back of your throat. Something must’ve ruptured. You step carefully, boots crunching faintly over shattered glass and blackened debris, flashlight beam cutting through the hazy dark. The light catches on warped metal shelves and sparking control panels, some still twitching with electricity like nerves misfiring after death. The walls bear the scars of something big. Blunt force trauma, panels torn clean off, a ventilation shaft caved in like it had been punched by a truck. Or someone stronger.

Clark, Superman right now, steps in behind you, and the temperature dips again, though whether it’s from the lab’s broken systems or the way his presence seems to alter gravity, you’re not sure. He’s close enough to you that you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze, the electricity that always seems to crackle around him like storm static.

“You didn’t hear that?” you ask, eyes on the melted vent near the server bank.

He doesn’t answer right away. You hear the subtle scrape of his boots as he moves forward, careful but purposeful.

His hand is pressed to an earpiece that connects him back to the Justice Gang. Then, his voice low and tight and not quite right, he says, “No. But comms have been static since we came in.” It’s frayed at the edges. Not panicked necessarily, more like compressed. Like he’s holding something in with both hands.

Your eyes cut to him, studying the way his jaw flexes. The tendon there jumps. His brow is furrowed hard enough to cast shadows over his eyes. You file it away. Clark doesn’t tense like that unless something’s really wrong.

The two of you move deeper into the wreckage. You’re good at this dance by now: quiet, efficient, side by side. You’ve always worked well together. Sometimes too well. The air between you has always carried a charge, something you’ve trained yourself not to look at directly. He’s always been a little too steady. A little too aware of you. You’re not proud of the way your stomach tightens when he gets close, but you’ve learned to live with it. To ignore it.

Until now.

He slows without warning. One sharp breath in. Then he lifts an arm and shoves it across your body, forearm firm against your ribs, stopping you cold.

You tense. “What?” 

That’s when you hear it. A hiss, low and insidious, coming from behind the server rack. A sharp click, and then a spreading shimmer, green and iridescent, like powdered glass in sunlight.

It doesn’t explode. It blooms. A slow-motion detonation of mist, sparkling and cool. You barely have time to yank Clark’s sleeve, trying to pull him back, when it rolls over both of you like fog. It clings to your skin. Cold, but not icy. Tingling, like mint or menthol or static electricity crawling up your arms. It vanishes just as quickly as it arrived.

Clark coughs once, short and startled. He shakes his head, hand to his temple. “I’m fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t. You know that look he’s wearing as he turns away from you. But you have no idea how not okay everything in him is about to become.

-

Your apartment is quiet when you return. Too quiet. The sound of the door shutting echoes through the entryway like it doesn’t belong here. Clark brushes past you without a word, shoulder brushing yours in a way that leaves heat in its wake. You pause, frowning as he yanks off his coat, having changed back into normal clothes in the van, and lets it fall to the back of the couch with less care than usual.

His shirt sticks to him. Darkened at the chest and spine, completely sweat drenched.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask from the kitchenette, watching him warily. “That mist, whatever it was… Lex doesn’t exactly follow OSHA regulations, you know.”

“I said I’m fine,” his voice is clipped, snapped off at the root in a way you haven’t heard from him unless he’s worked up in an argument. He drags a trembling hand down his face. His knuckles are pale from the pressure.

When he finally turns to face you, your breath catches. His pupils have blown wide, black swallowing blue, save for the thinnest outer ring of color. His skin is pink, not just flushed but fevered—cheeks, throat, even the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in hard, shallow bursts. And his voice, when he speaks again, it’s lower, thicker, like it’s being pulled from somewhere deeper.

“Just… give me a second.” His hand lifts, a silent plea. “Please. Just… stay there. Don’t come closer.”

You go still.

He pivots away fast, faster than necessary, as though the sight of you is something sharp. His back is broad and tense, muscles twitching beneath the cling of his damp shirt. He grips the windowsill, hard, and the old wood groans. The room smells suddenly warmer. Earthy. Like something alive is cooking under his skin.

“Clark.”

“I said,” he bites it off. Another breath. Too short. Too fast.

You take a careful step forward. The sound of it is barely audible.

He still flinches. “Don’t,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”

“Clark, you’re scaring me.”

“I know.” His head bows. His shoulders shake once, violently. Then, quieter, he adds, “I think it’s affecting me.”

Your stomach drops. “The mist?”

He nods, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the floor. “My temperature’s spiking. My hearing’s off. Everything’s too loud. I can hear your pulse from here. I can smell your shampoo. Your skin.”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “What does that mean?”

His grip tightens on the sill until a crack splits through the wood beneath his palm. “It means,” he rasps, “if you come any closer right now, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

The room holds its breath. You do, too.

His voice, when it returns, is barely there. “I don’t know what it is. But I’m reacting to you.”

The words drop between you like a match into oil. You stare at his silhouette, so steady, so still, except for the way his body trembles. Not from weakness. From restraint. Every inch of him pulled tight like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. He won’t look at you. Not because he’s ashamed but because he’s frightened of what he’ll do if he does. And still, somehow, he’s trying to protect you.

That’s when you realize how bad it is.

You step back, just once. A single retreat. He exhales like it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe in minutes.

But you don’t leave.

You won’t.

Because something else is brewing beneath the fear. Something bigger than him. Bigger than this room.

Desire. Desperation. The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your teeth. The kind that makes your knees weak and your palms sweat and your body ache. It radiates off of him like heat. Like sunlight in a closed room. Like a tidal wave held back by one splintering dam.

You don’t touch him. Not yet. But just as you move one foot forward, as if to take a step towards him, the world seems to move twice as fast. 

The door to your guest room slams before you even register that he’s moved.

Not walked—but vanished. A rush of wind tears through the living room, ruffling your shirt, tossing a magazine from the coffee table. The curtain flutters against the window as if something huge just passed through it. You blink once, twice, and then hear it: a door at the end of the hallway slamming shut. A lock turning. Then another. Then there’s a scraping sound, heavy and dragging, like furniture being shoved into place.

You sit there for a second, frozen on the couch.

The stillness after his absence feels louder than anything else. The room hums with the echo of his body heat, like he left part of himself behind in the static. The silence thickens. It stretches around you like a second skin.

And you don’t know what to do.

He could have flown away. Through the wall, the roof, the earth. He didn’t.

He chose to stay.

And for a minute, you just let yourself sit with what that means. What you want to do with that. The ache in your chest, the need to help him, to soothe him, is practically overwhelming. 

So. you stand. The wood floor feels cool under your bare feet as you cross the living room. Your heart thuds in your throat. It’s quiet in the hall, except for a faint, rhythmic creak. Footsteps. Pacing. Uneven. Too fast. You reach the guest room and try the handle.

Locked.

Your palm presses to the frame. “Clark?”

Nothing.

Then, faintly, his voice calls through the door. “Don’t,” he says, but it comes out broken. 

You rest your forehead against the wood. “You’re not okay.”

“No.” His voice cracks like a fault line. “No, I’m really not.”

“Then let me help.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear him breathing. It’s ragged, not shallow, just strained, like every inhale is a battle.

“I don’t think I want help.” That lands with a weight you weren’t ready for. Not cold. Not cruel. Just true. His voice curls around the word want like it hurts him to say it.

You grip the doorknob, knowing he could tear it off its hinges in one second flat and hasn’t.

“Clark. Open the door or I’ll break it down.”

A sound punches through the silence. Not speech. A groan. Low, ragged, helpless. Then a sudden thunk as his fist meets the wall, followed by another scrape of wood dragging across the floor. You picture the dresser wedged against the frame, a barricade built by a man who could level a mountain… and who’s terrified of you.

“You have to go,” he snarls, voice cracking into something feral. “Please. I can’t. I can’t trust myself right now. I’d leave if I could but I can’t. My body won’t let me.”

You lay your hand flat against the door, thumb brushing the trim.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait. Count six full heartbeats. Yours. Maybe his too.

The lock clicks.

Then the barricade moves. Slowly. A soft grinding against the floorboards. You hear the sharp exhale he lets out through clenched teeth, like just touching the furniture costs him. The door creaks open an inch.

Then two.

Enough for you to slip inside.

He stands in the middle of the room, shoulders bared in the lamplight. The dresser is still half-dragged across the entrance, skewed at an angle. The air smells like salt and skin and lightning, like too many nights without rest. The overhead light is off, only the bedside lamp glows amber behind him, casting long shadows across the walls.

He’s not looking at you. It’s like he can’t.

His chest rises and falls like he’s been drowning for hours and just surfaced. Sweat drips down his temple. His curls are soaked and stuck to his forehead. His hands tremble at his sides, clenched so tight the skin across his knuckles has split—tiny crescents of blood bloom along his palms.

His eyes, when they flicker toward you for just a second, are nearly black.

He’s shaking.

He presses himself back against the far wall like he’s trying to phase into it. Both hands flatten against the drywall as if he could anchor himself there, stop his body from flying toward you like gravity itself can’t hold him anymore.

And he’s hard.

Painfully, visibly so. The outline of his cock strains against the front of his pants, thick and high and unyielding. His thighs tremble. A low vibration hums through the floorboards beneath your feet. The foundation quakes. The wall beside his hand spiders with a hairline crack.

“Clark,” you whisper.

His eyes snap shut. “Don’t say my name,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t…don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it.” The words are spit out, angry but desperate. “Because it makes it worse. Because I can hear every breath you take and smell your skin and all I want to do is,” he swallows hard, “is bend you over that bed and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

You flinch.

So does he.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, voice wrecked and horrified. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t… I don’t talk like that. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

He lifts off the floor slightly. Not fully, just the heels. Just enough to hover. He touches back down with a soft thud that feels louder than a gunshot. “I can’t stop shaking,” he says, more to himself than to you. “It’s not just my body. It’s everything. You’re too loud. You smell like soap and skin and heat. I’m trying to block it out, I swear I am, but your heartbeat’s been pounding in my head since we walked into the damn apartment and I can’t breathe.”

You take a step toward him. He twitches violently, shoulder bumping the light switch. The lamp dims, bathing the room in a low amber flicker. The wall behind him cracks again. Not from contact. But from restraint.

“Don’t touch me,” he begs. “Please. I need…God, I need you, but I can’t. I can’t.”

“I trust you,” you say, low and steady.

His laugh is hollow. Cracked in half. “You shouldn’t.”

You reach for him anyway. Slow. Palms up. He groans, a sound that comes from his chest, not his mouth. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s just barely still in control of himself.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he says, suddenly. Desperate. Like he didn’t mean to say it but couldn’t stop. “Tell me it’s okay and I’ll give you everything. Just say the word and I swear to God, I’ll make you feel so good you forget this started as a mistake.”

“Clark—”

“I wasn’t supposed to want you like this.” His voice breaks completely as he cuts you off. His head drops between his shoulders. “You were supposed to be safe from me.”

Your hand hovers near his wrist. Close enough that the heat of him pulses against your skin. “I’m not scared of you.”

His breath shudders. His arms tense against the wall. “You really should be.”

“I’m not.”

There is a beat of silence before he finally turns to look at you. He stands there, drinking you in. You feel yourself grow wet just looking back at him. It is perhaps the single most intimate moment of your life. 

His expression is wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Lips parted, trembling. Sweat trails down his temple, catches on the curve of his jaw. His hands twitch at his sides, opening and closing like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or fall to his knees.

“I can hear your heart,” he whispers, like it hurts to say. “Even when I’m not with you. It’s always calling me back to you.” Then, in a barely audible whisper he says, “Please. This is the last time I can ask. Please go.”

But he doesn’t want you to. Not really. It’s in the way his gaze drops to your lips. In the way his arms flinch toward you and freeze halfway, fists clenching to stop himself. In the way his whole body screams stay even as his mouth begs you to leave.

You step into his space. He doesn’t stop you.

“I trust you.” You say it again, not softer, not hesitant. Steady and solid, like a vow.

And something in him breaks.

You feel it before you see it. The air pressure shifts—dense, electric. Like a storm cell cracking open in the room. Heat rolls off his skin in waves, not warmth but fever, a suffocating kind of intensity that licks across your face and neck, makes the fine hairs on your arms rise. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling like they’re already memorizing the feel of your skin.

His breath catches sharp, uneven. Then his eyes meet yours.

And he lunges.

His mouth crashes into yours in a blur of heat and need and raw, wild hunger. You barely have time to inhale before his kiss swallows the sound whole. His lips are hot, parted, wet with need, and his breath tastes like ozone, like thunder about to strike. One hand fists in your shirt, dragging you up into him so hard your toes leave the floor. The other anchors behind your neck, fingers trembling as he cradles you close like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or devour you.

This isn’t a kiss. It’s possession.

His chest slams against yours, soaked through with sweat, the cotton of his shirt damp and clinging. You feel the frantic rhythm of his heart punching against your sternum like it’s trying to beat out of his body and into yours. His muscles shake with restraint, with need. His whole body vibrating like he’s holding back the force of his name.

Then your back hits the wall.

Not rough, just inevitable. Like gravity gave up. Like your body simply belongs there now, pinned beneath his.

The breath leaves your lungs in a stuttered gasp, but he doesn’t slow. His mouth drags down your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear. He groans low, the sound half-growl, half-prayer, and licks a stripe up the side of your neck. The wet heat of his tongue makes you jerk, and he chases the motion with a low moan, hips grinding forward.

You feel the full, brutal outline of his cock straining in his jeans, thick and heavy and burning. It presses against your stomach like a warning. Like a promise. The denim between you is too much, but not enough, and he thrusts again, groaning as he ruts against you like he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I-I can’t,” he gasps, voice cracking apart. His forehead drops to your shoulder, the heat of his breath pouring across your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please. I need you to tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You bury your hands in his hair, hot, damp, wild, and tug him back up to your mouth. He stumbles into the kiss with a whimper, and it breaks something in him.

“Oh my God,” he chokes. “You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted. You feel like….fuck, baby, I can’t think. You’re everywhere. You’re….God.”

He hoists you up. No struggle. No hesitation. Your feet leave the ground like you never needed them to begin with, and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The moment your core presses against the thick line of his cock, both of you gasp. The sound he makes, wrecked, guttural, rips through you like lightning.

“Please,” he moans into your neck. “Please just once. Let me inside you. I need it. I need to come inside you. Just once. I swear I’ll—God, sweetheart, please.”

Your hands are already between your bodies, fumbling for his belt. The metal buckle clinks in the quiet, your fingers moving too fast, too clumsy, but he doesn’t stop you. His breath hits your cheek in hot, broken pants, and he presses his forehead to yours as you work the button free.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice rough and frayed. “You have to be mine.”

You slide your hand into his jeans.

He bucks. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and glistening, and so heavy in your hand you feel your mouth water. The skin is hot, pulsing, the tip leaking, dripping, and you can’t stop staring. He’s gorgeous. Desperate. And glowing. Not just metaphorically. His skin glows faintly gold, his body flushed all over. Sweat beads at his hairline. His chest heaves like he’s run from the ends of the earth, and his pupils are bottomless. He looks down at you like he’s watching a miracle, mouth parted, chest rising and falling in stuttered, helpless bursts.

“Don’t,” he begs, eyes on your mouth as you sink to your knees. “Don’t do this. You don’t understand. If you put your mouth on me, I’ll-I’ll lose it.”

You do it anyway. You take him into your mouth, slow, steady, savoring the first taste of him. Salt and skin and something electric. Something other. The second your tongue swirls around the tip, he levitates.

You feel it. The floor falls away. Just a few inches. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to barely brush his thighs unless you reach. You steady yourself with one hand on his hip and suck him deeper.

He moans. Not quiet. Not controlled. “Fuck. Oh my God, baby, your mouth. Your mouth was made for me.” His hands hover for a second, but the moment you swallow around him, they snap into your hair. Not rough, just anchored. Like he needs you to stay or he’ll lose his mind.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. “You’re gonna break me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs squeeze together at the sound. You moan around him, low, hungry, and he shudders violently. His thighs go rigid, his cock pulsing on your tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, voice breaking, hips twitching. “I can’t stop. Fuck, I can’t.”

He comes. It hits like a wave crashing through him, hips jerking forward, a broken cry of your name tearing from his throat. His hands tighten in your hair as he spills down your throat in thick, hot pulses. You take it. Every drop. His whole body trembles. He says your name again, softer, reverent, worshipful. But when you pull back, wiping your mouth, heart still racing, he’s still hard. Still flushed. Still panting. Still needing.

You rise slowly, chest heaving. He meets you halfway. His kiss is filthier now, sloppier. Less like hunger, more like addiction. Like he needs your mouth open under his to breathe.

“Let me fuck you,” he begs, kissing along your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hands are under your shirt now, rough palms skating over your sides, your ribs, your breasts. “Let me put it in. Please. I’ve wanted this. I’ve dreamed about this. Please.” His voice, God, it shakes with it. Raw. Broken.

You nod and he doesn't wait. You don’t make it to the bed. You crash to the floor together, needy, breathless, half-undressed and already gone.

Your back hits the floor, cool beneath your shoulder blades, the contrast shocking against the heat radiating off your skin. The carpet bites softly at your spine, grounding you just enough to remember where you are. Who you’re with.

Clark stares down at you from the edge of the bed like he’s caught between gravity and godhood. Like he’s not sure whether to climb on top of you or fall to his knees and pray.

His chest rises and falls in stuttered, trembling gasps. His hair clings wet to his forehead, and his collar is dark with sweat. The vein in his neck pulses visibly, sharp and wild, like his body’s threatening to detonate under the weight of what he feels.

You sit up slowly, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt. “Let me.”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods, once, sharp, breathless. You peel the fabric upward, slow not to tease but to pace yourself because even this feels like too much. Each inch of skin you reveal is flushed and golden, his body gleaming like he’s been sculpted from sunlight. His abs contract beneath your knuckles, trembling as you drag the shirt over his head and toss it aside. You place both palms flat against his chest. His skin is burning.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You’re overheating.”

“I know.” His voice is strained, torn from the base of his throat. “Can’t cool down. Not when you’re,” he cuts himself off with a groan, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hands come to yours, locking them to his chest like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You move next, tugging off your top in one fluid motion. His eyes widen. He doesn’t blink. The second your skin is bare to him, your breasts rising with each breath, your ribs flushed with heat, Clark moans. A low, fractured sound, punched from somewhere deep in his gut.

“Oh gosh,” he breathes. “You’re…honey, you’re unreal.”

You take his hand and press it to your waist. He follows your lead, sliding his palm upward, the heel of it grazing beneath your breast. His thumb brushes the swell like he’s holding something sacred. You stand, shuck your pants and underwear in one smooth motion, and drop back onto the carpet, bare, open, heart hammering.

His eyes darken.

You spread your legs slowly, offering. Inviting. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move.

“Clark.”

His gaze snaps to yours. Dazed. Pleading. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, like confession. “Don’t deserve you.”

“Then earn me,” you say, steady and low. “Right now.”

It shatters him. He drops to his knees between your legs, big hands bracketing your thighs as he crawls over you. His body trembles, but the second your legs wrap around his waist and his cock grazes your inner thigh, the last of his restraint snaps like a live wire.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “Wanted you. For so long.”

He fists himself blindly, lines the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and pauses, barely. His eyes search yours, wide and unsteady, asking for more than permission.

You nod and he pushes in all at once. The stretch is intense. Sharp at first, then slow, molten, as he fills you. Thick, long, impossibly deep. You arch beneath him, breath vanishing from your chest like the wind’s been knocked out of you.

“Jesus, baby…you’re tight,” he chokes out, hips jerking. “I’m sorry, I’ll-I’ll go slow, I promise, I’ll…” He doesn’t move. Can’t. His cock is fully seated inside you, twitching, pulsing. He trembles like he’s trying to stay still while the earth shifts underneath him.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping across sweat-slick muscle. “Look at me.”

He lifts his head and it wrecks you. His pupils are blown, lips parted, hair a mess of damp curls and desperation. He looks like he’s about to cry. Like he’s still not convinced this is real.

“You take me so well,” he whispers, awestruck. “You feel like… home. Like I’m supposed to be here.” Then he moves. The first thrust is measured. Slow, grinding, a deep roll of his hips that lets you feel every ridge,  every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

The second makes you gasp.

He buries his face in your neck. “I can’t hold back,” he pleads, voice breaking. “You’re too good…I need, fuck, I need you.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “Then take me.”

He groans, a raw, desperate sound, and starts to move. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Over and over. He rolls into you with reverence and need, like each thrust might be the last. His cock drags across every aching part of you, hitting so deep you see stars. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet, rhythmic, intimate.

He keeps talking. Between thrusts, kisses, gasps. 

“You feel like heaven.”

“You fit me so perfectly, sweetheart.”

“I think about this… I think about you, every fucking night.”

“I tried to go slow. I did. But I’ve never needed anything this bad.”

“Then stop trying,” you murmur as you pull his face to yours and kiss him, open, messy, breathless.

He shudders and lets go. His pace sharpens. Each thrust drives into you with heat, with purpose. The carpet burns the backs of your thighs, your spine arches, your hips lift to meet his, chasing the next stroke like it’s oxygen.

Your moans rise unchecked, curling into his mouth. Your nails rake down his back. You’re close, so close, and he feels it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips at your cheek. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come with me inside you.”

You do. You shatter. Your whole body clenches around him, high and sharp and unstoppable, and you sob his name into the hollow of his throat. He follows, hips snapping forward, cock pulsing as he groans your name into your skin. His cum fills you hot and thick, spilling deep, and he presses all his weight into you as he shakes through it.

But he doesn’t pull out. He can’t. He stays inside you, chest heaving, forehead pressed to your sternum. You feel him twitch. He’s still hard.

“Sweetheart,” he pants, barely audible. “I-I’m still, shit.”

“I know,” you breathe. And then grinning, wrecked, and smug, you cradle his jaw. “So do something about it.”

His head snaps up. His eyes, dark, gleaming, and reverent, burn through you.

“You sure?”

“I’m not fragile.” You nod.

He groans. A real one. Guttural. Primal. Then he pulls out slowly. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, already clenching around nothing.

“Turn over,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Hands and knees, please baby.”

You do. Limbs trembling, thighs still soaked. You arch your back, push your hips up, and you know how you look, open, dripping, waiting. Clark swears behind you, low and violent.

“Fuck. Look at this. Still wet for me.” You feel his hand slide up the curve of your ass, spreading you gently. His palm burns against your skin. “Still begging,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Still mine.” He leans over you, mouth against your ear. “Say it,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Clark…please.”

That’s all it takes.He thrusts back into you in one smooth, brutal stroke. You cry out, back arching, fists grabbing at the sheets as he fills you again, deeper this time. Different angle. New pressure. He grabs your hips, anchoring you as he starts to move, harder now, relentless.

The sound of your bodies colliding is obscene. The wet slide, the slap of skin, the thud of the bedframe against the wall. You swear you feel the room shake.

“You like that?” he growls. “Like being filled so deep you can’t breathe?”

You nod frantically, jaw slack. He grabs your hair, tugs gently, and your spine bows. “Whose is it? Tell me, please.”

“Yours.”

“Again.”

“Yours. Yours, Clark…fuck.”

He pounds into you, and you unravel. Crying, shaking, babbling. He softens just a hair, fingers reaching down, finding your clit.

“Let me make you come again,” he murmurs, voice thick and tender. “Let me show you what it’s like when someone loves you while they do it.”

And you do. You come again, loud, broken, full-body. He holds you through it, kissing your spine, circling your clit until your vision whites out. 

His hips stutter as he spills into you again. He tugs you tight to his body and for a minute, you just lay there and breathe one another in.

You don’t know how much time passes like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe a lifetime. You’re sprawled on the bed in the aftermath of the last round, body limp, flushed and twitching, lips kiss-bruised, neck painted with soft, blooming marks that still throb when the air brushes over them. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, broken pulses.

And you’re still full of him. Clark hasn’t softened once. He’s still inside you, cock hard and throbbing, hips twitching in shallow, instinctive pulses like his body can’t stop, not when you’re slick and warm and wrecked beneath him. Not when you keep letting him. Not when you keep asking.

He pulls out slow this time. Almost tender. Kisses your temple, murmurs something soft that slips past your ears like steam. And then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you’re air and light and the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Your back never leaves the bed until he’s upright. Until he carries you across the room. Until your spine hits the cool wall.

You gasp.

He pins you there with reverence, his hands cradling your ass and lower back, your thighs wrapped around his hips, your toes curling against the heat of his skin. His forehead presses against yours, and for a moment, he’s still. His chest shakes with the effort of it.

You think he might kiss you. Might whisper something sacred. Instead, he thrusts back inside you all at once.

You cry out. So does he. “Oh fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, cock dragging deep. “Still so tight. So full of me.”

Your head thumps back against the wall. Your hands scramble over his shoulders, his biceps, his hair, anywhere. Everywhere. His rhythm is already brutal, unrelenting, every thrust slamming up into you like he’s trying to make you feel it. Feel him.

“Clark, please,” you cry. You aren’t even sure what you’re begging him for at this point. You’re so full, so overstimulated, but so high on the pleasure he’s been drawing out of you that you just don’t care. 

“Look at you,” he moans, hips snapping. “So pretty. All mine.”

You clutch tighter. He’s talking again, rambling, wrecked and breathless and barely coherent. “I dream about your pussy,” he gasps. “You know that? Wake up with my cock in my hand. It’s pathetic ‘cause nothing feels like this. Nothing. It’s you. Only you.”

You clench down around him, and he snarls, teeth flashing at your throat, biting back restraint.

“Oh, you like that?” he pants. “Knowing I can’t sleep without you? That I jerk off thinking about this, about you, and it’s never enough?” He grinds deeper, dragging his cock against every swollen, sensitive part inside you. You cry out, legs locking harder around him.

“I could split you open,” he growls, words slurring with heat. “Fill you so deep you’d leak for days. You’d take it all, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes…yes, please.”

“You have,” he grits. “Already fucking have.” His pace sharpens. Your body jerks. The wall trembles with every slam of his hips, the entire world narrowing down to the stretch, the fullness, the delicious, dizzying ache.

“You feel like home,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like heaven. Fuck, I’m gonna come just from being inside you.”

And he does. His thrusts falter. He buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching, and he shudders as he spills so deep it punches a gasp from your chest. He groans your name against your jaw, clutches your body tighter, holds you through it like if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

You pulse around him, overstimulated and aching and trembling, but not finished. Not even close. You press your forehead to his, breath fogging between you.

“You still with me?” you whisper.

His smile is shattered. Raw. Worshipful. “Barely,” he admits. Then, with a breathless laugh, “But I’m almost done.” He shifts you higher against the wall, your bodies never separating. His hips roll again. Slow. Deep. You whimper, overstimulated nerves lighting up again.

“I love the little sounds you’re making,” he pants, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before thrusting back in hard enough to make your ribs quake. “Can’t get enough of them. Can’t get enough of you.”

You cling to him. His hair. His shoulders. Your body slick where it meets his.

“You still want me?” he asks suddenly, voice cracking. “Even like this?”

You lift your hips into his, thighs flexing. “Always,” you breathe. “More.”

He makes a noise like prayer, like something sacred and shattered in one, and his mouth finds yours again, messy and bruising. “Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “There’s my good girl.”

His forehead presses to yours. His movements slow, not retreating, just deeper. More deliberate. His voice drops into your mouth like a secret he’s never told anyone else. “Let me do the work right now, hm?” he breathes, thumb stroking your hip. “Take my hands. Show me what you need.”

You guide one to your throat.

The other to your breast.

He groans so hard you feel it in your chest. His palm cradles your throat, thumb resting just beneath your jaw. The other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice unraveling. “This what you needed?”

You nod, choking on his name.

“You feel so perfect,” he says again, reverent. “I could die like this. Buried in you. Wouldn’t even care.”

You arch against him, your back to the wall, your chest to his hand, your body a livewire. He kisses your mouth, your cheeks, the tear trailing from your lashline. “Let me stay inside,” he whispers, voice broken. “Just for a second. Please. Don’t make me leave you yet.”

Your breath is stuttering. Your limbs tremble. Every inch of your skin is hot, marked, open. Clark is still inside you, barely moving, barely breathing. He cups your jaw with one trembling hand, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight.

You finally nod, lips brushing his. “I want that too.”

His hips twitch once, then still. He sinks deeper into the space you make for him, into the sweat-slick cradle of your body. His breath hitches, but not from lust this time, from something softer. Something more fragile.

You slide your fingers into his hair, and he exhales a long, shaky breath. The weight of him, the heat, the fullness, it settles into your bones like a lullaby. Like the storm is finally passing.

Eventually, his movements stop entirely. Just the press of his chest against yours. Just the way his hands cradle your body like you might vanish if he lets go.

-

It’s quiet when he wakes. Not just the silence of the room, but the silence inside him. The frenzy’s gone. No compulsion. No gnawing need.

Just… you.

You’re draped over him, cheek resting on his chest, fingers curled into the space just beneath his ribs, one bare leg hooked across his hip like your body knows where it belongs. You’re soft. Warm. Still tangled up in him. And he’s still inside you. Soft now. Nestled in your heat like his body couldn’t bear to part from yours even in sleep.

Clark doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare breathe. Because if he does, he might break the spell. You might vanish.

He shuts his eyes, tries to hold on, but it’s already unraveling. The memories crash down in waves. Your voice. Your tears. His hands. His mouth. The way he couldn’t stop. The way he didn’t want to.

He hadn’t just touched you…he’d taken. Let instinct rule. Let himself fall apart inside the one person he never wanted to hurt.

You gave him everything, and he…he tried to bury himself in it like penance. Guilt claws its way up his throat.

He doesn’t deserve to be here.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He starts to pull away.

Quietly. Slowly. A coward’s retreat.

But before he can fully untangle himself, your arm curls tighter around his waist. And then, softly, sleepily, you tug him back to you.

Clark blinks.

You’re pulling him into your chest now, arms wrapping around him from behind. He lets it happen. Lets you mold him into the cradle of your body, like you’re trying to tuck every broken piece back into place.

You press your lips to the slope of his shoulder. Then to the nape of his neck. And then just… hold him.

“I don’t understand how you’re still here,” he whispers after a long moment. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I was… I wasn’t myself. I didn’t stop. I should’ve stopped.”

You kiss his spine. “You did stop. Every time I needed you to. Anytime I asked.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I said things I shouldn’t have. Touched you like I couldn’t help myself. Like I owned you.”

You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. “You didn’t own me,” you murmur. “You worshipped me.”

He’s quiet. Still trembling. You slide one hand down his arm, threading your fingers through his.

“Clark.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to see you out of the corner of his eye. “I know what it looked like last night,” you whisper. “But I wasn’t lost. I wasn’t swept away or powerless or broken. I wanted you.”

You kiss the curve of his jaw. “And I want you now.” His breath catches. You shift closer, pressing your body to his back, nuzzling your nose against his neck. “I want to show you how much,” you whisper. “Will you let me?”

He nods. Slowly. Like he doesn’t trust it, like he still thinks he’s dreaming. So you kiss him again, soft and sure, and ease him onto his back. His cheeks are pink already. His chest rising and falling in slow, careful breaths. You straddle his hips, guiding him to rest against the pillows. His hands hover at your thighs, not quite grabbing, still asking for permission.

You lace your fingers through his and kiss his knuckles. “Let me love you this time.”

He swallows, nodding. “Okay,” he says softly. “Please.”

You lean in and kiss his throat. His collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. You take your time. Let him feel it. Let him breathe in it. And when you finally reach down and guide him back inside you, he gasps like it’s the first time all over again.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You feel…you feel like heaven.”

You roll your hips slowly, easing him deeper with every rock of your body. His hands rise to your waist, holding gently. Reverently.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice trembling. “You always are, but like this…I don’t know how to look at you and survive it.”

You ride him like a promise. No rush. Just the slow ache of him filling you, the soft slick sound of your bodies moving together.

“You should see yourself right now,” he whispers, eyes wide, voice thick with wonder. His hands drag up your thighs.“You’re… breathtaking.”

You moan, letting your head tip back.

He groans softly, hands tightening slightly. “Every time you move like that,” he says, voice shaking, “it feels like you’re letting me have something I never thought I’d deserve.”

You gasp again, higher, needier, and he exhales like it’s knocking the wind out of him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You sound like you're mine.” His voice is reverent. Wrecked. And so full of love you almost fall apart from it.

“Please don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, Clark.”

His gaze burns into you. “I won’t,” he says, lifting his hips to meet yours. “I’d stay like this forever if you let me.”

And then you realize you’re floating. Just a few inches off the bed. Your knees suspended above the mattress, his body rising with yours, his grip gentle but sure.

“Clark,” you gasp, clenching around him. “You’re…oh my god. You’re floating.”

His eyes fly open, dazed. “I—oh shoot—I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, rocking harder now. “Please, Clark. I’m so close… please please please.”

His hands steady you. “Ride it out, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft and sure. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You whimper, mouth falling open, as he starts to move with you, slow and deep, guiding your hips in time with his.

“I love you,” he whispers, reverent. “I love you, and I’ve never felt anything like this. Never.”

The tension builds again, higher, sharper, brighter. You cry out as you come, your whole body locking down around him. He follows, groaning into your mouth, spilling inside you with a shudder. And for a long, perfect moment, you stay like that. Breathless. Floating. Loved.

You're both breathless and still tangled in each other. Still floating just a bit. And then his body finally gives out. Not from exhaustion exactly, but from everything else. The overwhelming emotion. The quiet joy. The fact that, for once, he’s not holding back.

You sink together into the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and slow, uneven breathing. His arms wrap around you instinctively, one hand splayed protectively over the small of your back. You press your cheek to his chest, heart still hammering. For a moment, there’s only quiet.

“…I broke the bed, didn’t I?”

You lift your head. Glance around. The mattress is halfway off the frame. The headboard has a crack running straight down the middle. There’s a suspicious dent in the drywall to your right, and is that a curtain rod on the floor?

You snort. “Technically,” you murmur, “I think the bed broke us.”

Clark groans and buries his face in your hair. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I am! Look at this place! It looks like a tornado made out with a thunderstorm in here.”

You grin and glance down at his chest, where a vivid trail of nail marks curves along his pecs. “I think we did a little more than make out, Kent.”

Clark groans again. “You’re not helping.”

“You’re adorable when you spiral.”

“I rearranged the furniture with my ass.”

You giggle into his neck. “Okay, that part was impressive.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes soft but sheepish. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

His gaze skims over your features like he’s searching for any sign of discomfort. You let him look. Let him catalogue the soft flush of your skin, the curve of your smile, the little hickeys scattered along your throat and shoulders like confessions.

Eventually, he exhales. Still cautious. Still Clark. “…I didn’t mean to float. Again.”

“I know.”

“I definitely didn’t mean to shatter the lamp.”

“I didn’t even like that lamp.”

His lips twitch. “You really okay?”

You press your forehead to his. “Clark. I’m great.”

“But your legs were shaking.”

“From happiness.”

He hides his face again, groaning into your shoulder. You feel the smile against your skin even as he tries to pretend he’s not grinning like an idiot. You comb your fingers gently through his hair, tugging just enough to make him peek back up at you.

“Hey.”

He hums, eyes half-lidded.

“You were gentle. You were sweet. You were amazing.”

“I…” He swallows. “I just… didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. With you. And now that I do,” his breath hitches. “I don’t want to do anything that could make you regret it.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. “I don’t.”

“Promise?”

You nod. “You’re mine. Floating furniture and all.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, burying you in the warmth of his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear. You both lay there, tangled and safe, legs twisted together beneath the wreckage of the sheets.

“…I should probably fix the drywall…” He says quietly, sheepishly

You laugh so hard you wheeze. He grins, cheeks flushed, and for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

-

Clark knocks. Not with superspeed. Not with X-ray vision scanning the walls. Not by floating outside your bedroom window like he has every night since. Just… knocks.

You hear it from the kitchen where you stand barefoot, sleep-mussed, one of his old flannels, clean now, hanging loose over your tank top. You wander to the door, unhurried, and open it to find him standing there on your front step like a prayer you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He’s in a navy sweater that clings a little too well to his arms, sleeves shoved to the elbow, curls damp from a shower. His glasses are slightly fogged from the early chill. His cheeks are pink, like he blushed on the way over and it never faded.

He’s holding a brown paper bag and a bouquet that’s half wildflowers, half… whatever he could reach in a field somewhere off Highway 6. It’s completely him. And completely yours.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t feel like phasing through the wall today?”

His mouth twitches. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

You arch a brow. “Clark. You’ve had me pinned to that wall.”

His ears go bright red.

You glance down at the bouquet. “What’s this?”

He clears his throat, shifts his weight, tries to smile like it’s casual. “Thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

“Just breakfast?”

“Breakfast and flowers.” He pauses, then adds, a little more nervous, “And maybe… a proper start.”

Your smile softens. “You already started.”

“I know. I just…” He shrugs helplessly. “I wanted this part to be normal. Not fevered. Not floating. Not…” His voice dips. “Not something I regret getting wrong.”

You reach out and take the bouquet from his hands. “You didn’t get anything wrong.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“I’m serious, Clark. You didn’t ruin me. You didn’t hurt me. You… loved me.” You step aside. “And I’d like for you to come in now. Preferably without apologizing again.”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. Then steps inside.

You trail him into the kitchen, watching as he unpacks the bag: coffee from that little corner café, real cream, strawberries, your favorite bagels. There’s a container of jam that definitely came from the farmer’s market.

You cock your head. “Is this a breakfast date?”

His hand stills. “Only if you want it to be.”

You cross the kitchen slowly, arms slipping around his waist from behind. He’s warm, soft, still a little damp from his shower. You press your cheek to the center of his back and feel him sigh. “I do,” you murmur. “Want it to be.”

He turns in your arms, eyes wide, glasses a little crooked. “You sure?”

You smile and reach up to fix them. “Clark. You’ve seen me naked, sobbing, laughing, riding you mid-air. I think we’re past the part where I pretend I don’t want you.”

A full flush blooms across his face. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs tracing the hem of your flannel. “I still can’t believe you want me,” he says quietly.

“I always did.”

His brow knits. “Even after everything? After what I said? What I did?”

You cup his jaw. “Clark. I wanted it because it was you. Every word you said. I heard all the love underneath. Even the parts you didn’t mean to say out loud.”

His eyes drop, and you nudge his chin gently back up.

“I see you. All of you. And I’m still here.”

His breath stutters. “You make me feel… human.”

You grin. “You make me feel like flying.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “I’m really glad I knocked.”

“Next time, bring more bagels,” you whisper. “And maybe some patching supplies.”

He groans. “I am going to fix the guest room.”

You hum. “Eventually.” Then you reach for the strawberries and say, sweetly, “Or… you could leave the wall dent. As a little trophy.”

He huffs a laugh. “What would we call it?”

You pop a berry into your mouth, then smile against his cheek. “The night Clark Kent lost his mind.”

He kisses you then, slow, deep, his hands warm against your waist like they never want to let go. When you break apart, he murmurs, “So… this is real?”

You nod. “This is real.”

And just before he can lean in again, you add, “But if you drop those bagels, I will find a way to toss you into the ceiling.”

He grins, teeth flashing. “That a promise?”

You smirk. “That’s a threat, Kent.”

He grabs the bagels with one hand and your waist with the other and kisses you like it’s breakfast, dinner, and a whole damn life in between.

[clarkbarnes]

bound to burn

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), MDNI, explicit smut like….. the whole time, Voyeurism (for the mission), Panty Thief Bucky, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Begging, Unprotected Sex, Breathless Moans and Filthy Praise, Reader Comes First (Always), edging, sex club

Summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?

None of it feels fake.

Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.”

And when it’s all over? You still ache for him.

And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.

word count: 11k

notes – not proofread. HORNY!!! This whole thing was inspired by that clip of Sebastian Stan saying he’d have sex every hour if he could in Romanian lmao I’m dead ass

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

Rain lashed against the windows of the safehouse briefing room, streaking down in jagged lines like claw marks against the concrete sky. The air inside was tight with tension, everyone still soaked from the field extraction, voices quiet and clipped. The lights overhead flickered as if they, too, could feel the mood coiling inside the room—sharp, brittle, ready to snap.

You sat at the long steel table, fingers clenched into your thighs beneath it, biting back the ache that had formed in your jaw from hours of grinding your teeth. Across from you, Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced against the surface, the veins in his hand bulging from the tension. His stare was locked on the briefing screen, unmoving. Silent.

Director De Fontaine’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“This one’s different,” she said, flipping to the next screen. “This one’s personal.”

The image that filled the screen made your stomach roll. You didn’t need to look twice to know who it was.

Cristian Dragomir.

Arms dealer. Human trafficker. Collector of women, weapons, and secrets. He wore suits like armor and surrounded himself with luxury that reeked of rot. On paper, he was a legitimate investor with deep ties to several Eastern European shipping companies. Off the record? He was a man who could broker the sale of a child or a warhead in the same breath.

And now, after weeks of sniffing along dead ends, you had him.

“Dragomir is hosting a private gathering at Club Vânătorii this weekend,” Val continued, crossing her arms as she paced in front of the screen. “Invitation only. No weapons allowed, no comms once inside. His security team is one of the most paranoid in the business. The only way in is to make yourself look too tempting to resist. And the only thing he cares about more than power—”

“—is watching people fuck,” Yelena muttered from the corner, slouched in her chair with a half-wrapped bandage around her ribs. The bruising along her collarbone was deep and purple, a halo of violence left behind from the ambush earlier that day. “Preferably when they think no one’s watching.”

You didn’t look at her injuries. Couldn’t. The sight of her blood staining her tactical gear had been enough to send something sharp and molten screaming through your chest. Ava had taken the worst of it—currently unconscious in the medbay, her vitals steady but shallow. Bob had a shattered femur. And the rest of the team? Shaken, silent. Gutted.

Val nodded grimly. “He has a thing for intimacy. Obsession. Pleasure dynamics. We’ve confirmed multiple reports of hidden surveillance systems in his personal properties—bedroom cameras, two-way mirrors, sound feeds. He gets off on devotion. Believability. If he doesn’t think a couple is real, he loses interest.”

She clicked again.

The screen split into four windows—each showing images of previous “guests” Dragomir had hosted. Couples entwined on silk sheets, touching and moaning while he watched. Some of them clearly unaware. Others? Not so much.

You felt your stomach turn.

“You want us to put on a fucking show?” Bucky said, his voice low and ragged. His knuckles had gone white against the table. “You want us to—what? Be bait?”

Val looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I want you to seduce him. You and her—” she nodded toward you, “—are the only ones who haven’t been made. You’re both unknown to him. He doesn’t know your faces, your aliases, your scent. We can plant the intel we need to get you in as high-end mercenary clients who are… deeply in love.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Dragomir will only engage with couples who seem hopelessly devoted to each other. Who act like they can’t go five minutes without touching. He likes to observe. Likes to believe that he’s discovering something private. The second he thinks it’s fake, he pulls away. And once he walks, he disappears. We don’t get another chance.”

The air in the room went thinner.

“Let me be clear,” Val said, stopping directly in front of the screen. “We’re not authorizing an assassination. This man is too valuable. He’s the only one who knows where several trafficking channels intersect. Names, drop sites, payment routes—some of them tied to Hydra remnants. We need him alive. We need his files. We need his silence afterward.”

She turned back toward the screen and pointed to the shimmering, golden glow of Club Vânătorii—Dragomir’s favorite hunting ground.

“He’ll be there. He’ll be watching. And he’ll only bite if you convince him that you two can’t keep your hands—or mouths—off each other.”

You sat back slowly, your pulse thudding in your throat.

Across from you, Bucky’s gaze finally met yours.

There was no joke in it. No smirk. Just that fierce, flickering heat you knew lived under the surface. The soldier and the man, warring beneath his skin. A question lingering in the air between you like smoke:

Can we do this?

Val’s voice broke the silence. “You’ll have one night. A single window to get close enough to draw him into a private room. Once he invites you in, we can activate the signal and move to extraction. But he has to invite you. And he won’t if he’s not convinced. You need to act like you’d die for each other. Like no one else exists when you’re in the same room.”

“We get it, Val. Touching. Hands all over each other.” You snap, jaw clenched. The room had narrowed to you and Bucky and the impossible tension already crackling beneath your skin.

He looked like he wanted to say something. But didn’t. Not yet.

“Are there any questions?” Val asked.

Yelena raised her hand, weakly. “Yeah. Who’s going to clean up the puddle when she makes him moan for the first time?”

There was a short, startled bark of laughter from Bob, even through the pain. You shook your head, a flicker of a smirk crossing your lips.

But Bucky? Bucky’s jaw twitched. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip like he was already imagining it.

Your smirk vanished, throat going dry.

“We leave in 48 hours,” Val said, nodding to the tech team. “Get fitted, get your backstories straight, and get ready to cross some boundaries. This mission won’t be comfortable. It won’t be clean. But it will be worth it if we bring that son of a bitch down.”

She paused at the door.

“And remember… whatever you have to do to get him alone?” Her voice dropped. “Do it.”

Then she was gone.

And you were left staring at Bucky across the table—both of you burning with unspoken words, with heat, with the knowledge that everything was about to change.

Forever.

-

The safehouse bedroom was dimly lit, bathed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. The kind of low light that made things feel softer than they were. Or maybe it was just that everything had been so sharp lately—every word, every touch, every stare—that now, in the stillness, the quiet felt unnatural. Unsettling.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed at the ankle, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Bucky stood near the door, arms crossed, the strain in his shoulders visible even through his black t-shirt. His jaw had been clenched for ten minutes now. You weren’t sure he’d unclenched it since the briefing.

Neither of you had spoken yet. Not really.

He finally broke the silence. “We need to talk.”

You nodded once, glancing up. “Yeah. We do.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, but not all the way. Not yet. “This mission’s not like anything we’ve done before. It’s not just physical—it’s… performative. Emotional. We’re not just gonna be touching. We’re gonna be selling something that people only believe when they feel it.”

You swallowed hard. “We’ll have to convince them we’re obsessed with each other.”

His eyes met yours then, dark and searching. “We’ll have to touch like we mean it. Look at each other like we’d fuck right there on the floor if no one stopped us.”

The breath caught in your throat. You looked away, heart fluttering.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That came out—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’re right. We have to talk about it honestly. What we’re willing to do. What’s too far.”

Bucky stepped closer now, kneeling in front of you, so close that your knees were almost brushing. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. “So let’s lay it out. Boundaries. What are yours?”

You hesitated, then shook your head slowly. “I don’t know if I can afford to have them on this one.”

His brows drew together. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean it. We both know what kind of man Dragomir is. If we hold back even a little, he’ll see it. He’ll know. We don’t get to flinch. And I’m not letting what happened to Yelena happen to anyone else. Not again.”

The silence between you buzzed. His fingers tightened slightly where they rested, and then his voice dropped low.

“So… kissing?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Touching?”

“Yes.”

“Hands, mouths, grinding…?”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His throat bobbed. “Clothes on or off?”

“If he asks, or if it gets us closer to the goal… yes.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment he didn’t breathe. You didn’t either.

“And after?” he asked quietly. “When the mission’s over?”

You didn’t have an answer to that. Not one you could say out loud.

“I trust you,” you said instead. “To know the difference between the mission and something else. I trust you not to hurt me.”

Something flickered across his face then. His jaw relaxed just a little. His eyes softened, but didn’t lose their intensity.

“I trust you too,” he said. “Which is why I wanted to ask…” He trailed off.

“What?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“That first kiss.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered. “We’re gonna have to do it in front of him. In front of a whole damn room. But maybe it’d be better… if it wasn’t the first time.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not saying we—” He scratched at the back of his neck, looking up through thick lashes. “Not for fun. Just so we’re not surprised by it. So it doesn’t feel… wrong. So we don’t flinch.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth. You both knew it. Because part of you—maybe a selfish part—wanted that first kiss to be yours.

Not the mission’s. Not Dragomir’s. Yours.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Neither of you moved at first. Then Bucky rose from the floor, the air shifting with him. He sat beside you on the bed, closer than he had to be, knees brushing yours, one hand bracing against the mattress behind you. The other hovered—hesitant—by your jaw.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded once.

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and calloused. You leaned into the touch without thinking.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured.

“I will,” you breathed.

He moved in slowly, like the moment might shatter if he rushed it. His nose brushed yours. His thumb stroked along your jaw.

Then—finally—his mouth found yours.

It was gentle at first. Searching. Not a performance. Not a test. Just Bucky, kissing you like he needed to know what you tasted like. Like maybe he’d thought about this before, late at night, when you were both supposed to be sleeping. The kiss deepened slowly, his lips sliding over yours with more confidence, more heat, as you melted into him.

You brought your hand up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. He groaned softly into your mouth.

God. He was warm. Steady. Big. You could feel every inch of him where your bodies brushed, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. Wasn’t pressing. Just holding you, kissing you, his thumb still stroking your cheek like he was grounding himself.

When you finally broke apart, your chest rose and fell like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You opened your eyes.

So did he.

No one spoke for a long beat. Then Bucky gave a quiet laugh, voice rough. “That didn’t feel like practice.”

Your lips curved, slow and cautious. “No. It didn’t.”

He reached out, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just—” You looked at him fully. “I wanted that one to be real.”

A pause. “It was.”

Another pause. You both stood slowly, feet unsure beneath you.

“Let’s get some rest,” Bucky said, voice low.

You followed him to the door. But before he opened it, his hand found yours and squeezed once.

Not for the mission.

Just for you.

-

The car door shut behind you with a heavy thump, Bucky’s hand on the small of your back guiding you toward the entrance of Club Vânătorii. It rose like a mirage out of the cobblestone back alleys of Bucharest, nestled behind wrought-iron gates and draped in decadence. A converted hunting lodge, if the rumors were true—though now the only thing being hunted here were thrills.

The air outside smelled like midnight. Warm, pulsing with electricity and expensive perfume. You could already hear the bass thrumming through the walls, deep and slow, like a heartbeat echoing in the dark.

You adjusted the hem of your dress—though really, there wasn’t much hem to adjust. The silk barely passed your upper thighs, a shade of champagne that shimmered like skin under the lights. It clung to your body like it had been poured on, every curve and hollow wrapped in temptation. Thin straps kissed your shoulders. The open back left you exposed down to the waist. One shift of movement, and the side slit promised glimpses of your upper thigh. Everything was intentional. The mission required it.

Still, when Bucky’s eyes dropped to take you in fully for the first time, you had to clench your fists to hide the way your fingers trembled.

He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just stared. Slow. Hungry. Then his tongue swept across his bottom lip, and he muttered under his breath, “Jesus.”

Your pulse fluttered. “You good?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

He met your eyes, that look in them dark and wicked and so very male. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly. “Try not to die until the mission’s over, Sergeant.”

He wore black tonight. No tie. Just a deep charcoal silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the edge of a thick chain at his collarbone, the faint dusting of chest hair peeking through. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing the shimmer of his metal arm and the flex of thick forearms that made every woman—and more than a few men—watching your approach twist in place to get a better look. His slacks were cut to frame his thighs and hips perfectly, and when he moved, he did it with the loose, lazy power of someone who knew exactly how he looked in every shadow.

You weren’t walking into a club. You were walking into a performance. Two lovers so obsessed with one another they could barely make it through the front doors without tearing at each other’s clothes.

The bouncer greeted you with a nod and a knowing smirk. Bucky slid a black card across the scanner without breaking eye contact with you. It beeped green. The doors parted.

And you stepped into the lion’s den.

The heat of the club hit you immediately—lavender and champagne curling through the air, light pulsing low and golden from crystal chandeliers overhead. The music wasn’t pounding the way most clubs did. It was slower. Darker. Built to match the rhythm of something else entirely.

Bodies moved across the floor like smoke—touching, grinding, kissing in dark corners, mouths open and greedy. There were no rules here. No shame. Just couples and triads and shadows of lust cast long beneath velvet light.

Eyes tracked you from the moment you entered. You felt it like static on your skin. Curious, covetous. Assessing. Everyone in this room was playing a game, and you were the newest piece on the board.

Bucky’s hand stayed firm on your lower back, his thumb brushing bare skin, grounding you. You leaned into him with an easy smile, tipping your face up so your lips almost brushed his jaw.

“See anyone looking at us?” you murmured.

He nodded, pretending to scan the room. “Everyone.”

“But not him,” you said.

“Not yet.”

You both knew why. Dragomir didn’t rush. He liked the chase. The anticipation. He waited until a couple looked ripe with lust—until they were fraying at the edges and nearly undone—before he made his move. It turned his stomach to see falsehood. He wanted desperation. Craving. He wanted to believe he was interrupting something sacred.

You exhaled slowly and let your body lean more into Bucky’s, hips brushing his. He turned his head slightly, letting his nose skim the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing good, doll,” he murmured, voice rough silk. “Real good.”

Your stomach twisted, heat blooming low.

Couples swayed around you. Some danced. Some didn’t bother. A woman near the edge of the bar moaned openly into her partner’s mouth as his hand disappeared under her dress. Another pair lounged on a couch, the woman’s thighs spread around her girlfriend’s knee as she rocked lazily, glassy-eyed.

You weren’t sure if it was an act anymore. You weren’t sure if any of this had ever been an act.

“Let’s give him something to look at,” you whispered. Bucky’s eyes gleamed.

You turned in toward him, draping an arm over his shoulder and letting your fingers toy with the chain at his chest. His hand slid to your waist, then lower, gripping the soft curve of your hip. You pressed your body to his—slow, syrupy—your mouths close, lips brushing as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for another second.

He kissed your jaw.

You tilted your head back, giving him your throat. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be soft or sweet. It was indulgent. Lavish. The kind of kiss meant to be watched.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker. A flicker of something feral beneath the polished control. You brushed your fingers against the edge of his waistband, voice sultry. “Think anyone bought it?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Does it matter?”

You paused, heart thudding. “No,” you said finally. “It doesn’t.”

He leaned in again, lips barely grazing yours. “Then let’s make it count.”

And behind you—unseen but definitely there—a new pair of eyes began to watch.

-

The lounge wasn’t part of the main club floor. It was darker, quieter, drenched in gold light and voyeurism. Plush velvet seating curved around the room like a theater. There was no stage, but everyone here knew the truth: you were the show.

This was where Dragomir’s guests lingered once they’d passed his first test. The ones he liked to watch but hadn’t quite settled on yet. Some were couples; others, strangers caught in the heat of the night. You could feel the atmosphere sink under your skin as you stepped through the archway, like walking into warm water. The music here pulsed softer, deeper. You could hear whispers, moans, the slick slide of skin on skin if you listened hard enough.

The couch Bucky chose was low and wide, its cushions soft like sin. He sat first, legs spread with casual dominance, one arm stretched across the backrest. You followed his silent cue and climbed onto his lap like you belonged there. Like this was your place. You weren’t even pretending.

His hand slipped around your waist as you adjusted yourself over his thighs, dress riding high, heat blooming beneath it. He didn’t speak at first. He just let you settle.

And then—his metal hand moved.

It brushed along your side, cold against your skin where the dress dipped dangerously low. You sucked in a breath at the shock of it, goosebumps prickling down your body. The chill of vibranium snuck beneath the silk, dragging slowly along your ribs with smooth, calculated pressure.

You didn’t flinch outwardly—but you knew he felt it.

Because a heartbeat later, his flesh hand came to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope. He just… held. His thumb brushed up, soft and apologetic, like a silent I know. He drew a line over your skin that burned hotter than the cold had.

And then his mouth was at your ear. “Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered. His breath tickled your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Eyes on me, okay, doll?”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You let your lips part in a quiet, knowing smile as your eyes fluttered shut for one long moment, and when you opened them again—you played the part.

You leaned into his body, your back arching subtly, breasts brushing his chest. You let your hand drift up his chest, fingers toying lazily with the buttons of his silk shirt, undoing one. Then another. Just enough to expose the firm plane of his chest, the dip of muscle, the necklace glinting beneath.

Someone across the room was watching. Maybe multiple someones. It didn’t matter.

Your smirk was slow. Teasing. A picture of indulgence.

The game had begun.

Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened slightly, his thumb still stroking as his metal hand swept broader circles along your side, palm flexing against your ribcage. The contrast of sensation—cold steel and warm callused skin—was dizzying. You shifted subtly in his lap, one of your hands rising to ghost along the side of his neck before sliding back into his hair. Short now. Still thick. Still something you’d been aching to touch since the moment he cut it.

You dragged your nails lightly over his scalp. He made a sound—low in his throat, nearly inaudible—but you felt it, the way it vibrated under your hands. His mouth returned to your skin, lips brushing your jaw before drifting lower, teeth grazing your earlobe with a sharp nip.

You gasped—real, involuntary—as his metal thumb slid higher along your ribs at the same time. The long sweep of it just barely catching the underside of your breast before retreating.

Your thighs clenched around him. He noticed.

His hand stilled on your thigh, fingers splaying, possessive. His metal hand returned to its slow, lazy exploration. He wasn’t being bold—not yet. But he didn’t need to be. Not when every graze of skin, every press of his mouth, was enough to send your thoughts scattering like glass.

You tilted your head, letting it fall back against his shoulder as his mouth found the curve of your neck. He didn’t kiss. He hovered. Teased. Let his breath wash over sensitive skin until your nipples tightened, your chest feeling heavy and achy beneath the silk.

You arched into him just a little more. Not because the room demanded it. But because you did. You needed to feel more of him.

A server passed nearby, placing two glasses of champagne on the table in front of you without a word. You barely noticed.

What you did notice was the moment a third person approached. A man in a rich burgundy suit, dark hair, darker eyes. He stopped in front of your couch, gaze raking over you with open interest.

Swinger. Not the target. But interested.

“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” he asked, his voice slick.

Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. His mouth was still on your neck, metal hand still painting circles on your side.

Then—very deliberately—he let his flesh hand slide an inch higher between your thighs. You inhaled sharply. That was not just for show.

The man raised his eyebrows in amusement.

You shifted in Bucky’s lap, throwing your arm around his neck as you turned your head, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Why’d you stop, Ștefan?” you purred, using the code name Val had given him for the op. Your voice dripped with seduction. You spread your legs just slightly wider in his lap. For him. “Don’t be rude to our audience.”

That did it.

Bucky’s mouth crashed into yours—not soft, not hesitant. Hungry. Hot.

His hand moved between your legs fully now, not breaking rhythm, thumb pressing teasing circles high along the inside of your thigh but stopping just shy of slipping under the hem of your underwear. His metal hand curled around your side, rising to cup the underside of your breast, thumb brushing the soft swell of it through the silk.

You moaned into the kiss. Your hands were in his hair, tangling as you rolled your hips subtly against him, feeling the shift in his body as he hardened beneath you.

The man in the burgundy suit chuckled and walked away. He wasn’t your concern.

But Bucky was.

You pulled back from the kiss just enough to murmur his name—your real voice, your real self, slipping out like a prayer. “Bucky…”

His head dropped to your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you.” Then your lips found his ear, and you said it—soft, broken, real. “Bucky. Please.”

It left your lips like a secret, a breathless confession shaped by the ache building low in your belly and the press of his body under yours. You hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t planned it—but the words slipped out before you could call them back.

And the second they did, everything changed.

His breath hitched. You felt it against your throat, warm and uneven. His grip on your thigh faltered for a split second—just long enough to reveal that he’d heard it. That he’d felt it.

That it had shattered whatever wall he’d still been clinging to.

His mouth was still on your neck, parted just enough for you to feel the edge of his teeth when he exhaled. Then, slowly, deliberately, his flesh hand moved.

Down. Between your legs. Past the hem of your dress.

And under.

Your breath stopped entirely as he pushed your underwear to the side, fingers dragging through the slick heat that had been building for far too long. You choked on a sound and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to stop yourself from crying out.

He groaned—loudly—his body jerking beneath you, hips shifting up into the cradle of your thighs like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispered, the words ragged against your skin. “You’re soaked.”

Your entire body flushed.

It wasn’t the mission anymore.

It wasn’t the game.

It was him.

You.

And this unbearable gravity that had been pulling you closer and closer for weeks, months—maybe longer than either of you could admit.

Bucky’s fingers slid along your seam, teasing but not entering, stroking you in maddening, gliding sweeps. His thumb circled your clit—slow, careful—like he was memorizing the way your hips twitched against his hand. You dug your nails into his shoulders, thighs tensing around his lap, your head falling back.

He watched every second of it.

His metal hand, still cradling your ribs, slid higher, cupping your breast through the thin silk and dragging his thumb lazily over your peaked nipple. It was too much. Too good. Your hips rolled without your permission, grinding against his hand in desperate little jerks.

His voice dropped, gravel thick and filthy-sweet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, nipping your jaw. “Shaking like this.”

“Because of you,” you gasped, the words catching as he flicked his thumb against you just right.

“Yeah?” His lips were at your ear again. “You gonna come like this, pretty girl? Just from my fingers?”

Your answer was a strangled whimper.

And then he slid two fingers inside you.

You saw stars.

Your back arched instantly, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as your body clamped around him. He filled you perfectly. Not deep, not hard—yet—but slow, deliberate thrusts that had your thighs trembling and your core tightening, fluttering. He curled his fingers with each stroke, grazing that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.

Your mouth found his again, desperate and open. He caught you easily, kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds and giving you his own.

His tongue licked into you, hot and wet, as his fingers worked you faster. You rocked against him, grinding down onto his lap with reckless need. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All you knew was the rising, sweeping pressure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your body climbing toward a peak you couldn’t stop if you tried.

And he knew.

“Come for me,” he whispered into your mouth. “C’mon, baby. Show them who you belong to.”

You broke apart.

The orgasm hit hard—fast and molten—your body jerking in his lap as wave after wave rolled through you. You buried your face in his neck, biting down into his skin to keep the scream inside. Your thighs clamped around his, your whole body shaking.

You heard the groan he let out when he felt it—felt you clench around him, soaking his hand, your slick dripping down his fingers. He was panting now, his hips twitching beneath you, his cock straining against his pants and pressing against your soaked core through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, sounding half-wrecked himself. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You couldn’t answer. Not yet.

You were still coming down, chest heaving, hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

You’d forgotten the room. Forgotten the watchers. Forgotten the mission.

You remembered only him.

The heat of his breath. The strength of his body. The filthy, possessive way he held you through it all.

The way you never wanted to leave his lap.

Time passed in uneven heartbeats.

You lifted your head slowly, blinking, trying to gather your voice.

“Wait—” But before you could finish, a shadow approached. And everything snapped back into focus.

Dragomir.

He stood across from your couch, dressed in dove-grey, the fabric of his suit sharp enough to slice. His hair was slicked back, dark eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier light. He held a crystal glass in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket like this was just another casual evening.

But he was watching you like prey.

He said something in Romanian. “Ștefan, preferi sexul dimineața sau seara?” Ștefan, do you prefer sex in the morning or the evening?

You only caught Bucky’s alias—Ștefan—and the word sex. The blood rushing in your ears as you recovered from your earth shattering orgasm not doing you any favors.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He stayed exactly as he was—one hand still between your thighs, your body still curled in his lap, lips brushing your jaw.

Then he dragged his hand out from between your legs—slowly—making sure Dragomir could see every second of it. Your breath caught as the cold air hit your soaked core, your body still sensitive and twitching.

Bucky lifted his hand to his mouth.

And licked his fingers clean.

Your entire body shuddered.

He smiled, the curve of it sharp and lazy.

Then answered in flawless Romanian, voice thick with desire: “Cu ea? În fiecare oră, dacă se poate.” With her? Every hour, if that’s possible.

You nearly came again just from hearing it.

Dragomir’s gaze turned molten. He smiled like a man who had just found his next meal. “Very good,” he purred. “I shall be back. Do not disappoint me.”

And then he walked away.

Bucky exhaled, finally turning his attention back to you. You were still trembling. He brushed his lips against your temple and whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded. Just barely. “I have to keep going,” you breathed, heart still pounding. “We almost have him.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Are you sure?”

You moved on instinct, shifting in his lap—and felt him. Impossibly hard. Thighs trembling beneath you from how tightly he was holding back. The raw want in his eyes made your breath catch all over again.

You kissed him—slow this time—pressing your mouth to his with aching intent.

Bucky understood without another word. Maybe he always had. He slid his hand between your thighs again, knuckles brushing your inner leg as you rocked forward in his lap, opening yourself to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

Because this wasn’t for the mission anymore. Not really. You could tell by the way his breath hitched when your slick heat met his fingers again, the way his mouth dragged along your collarbone like he was starved.

His lips ghosted against your throat. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.

“For you,” you whispered against his lips. “That’s for you.” He groaned, forehead falling to yours.

His fingers were slick with you. Heat pulsed between your thighs, a steady, aching throb that hadn’t dulled even after the first orgasm wracked your body. If anything, the edge had sharpened—your nerve endings now hypersensitive, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through your veins.

His fingers circled your clit again, not gently this time—but with purpose. You clung to his shoulders, one hand in his short hair, the other gripping the fabric over his chest to anchor yourself as your hips chased the motion, grinding down against his hand like you needed him to ruin you.

Your thighs were shaking. Your dress had hiked up so high it was barely covering anything anymore, the silk bunched around your waist. Anyone watching could see what was happening—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The entire room could’ve gone up in flames, and you would’ve stayed right there, moving against him, breath stuttering, pleasure curling tight and fast in your belly.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely able to say his name, mouth quiet. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His fingers worked faster, his other arm tight around your waist to hold you steady, to keep you close. His voice was ragged and low, each word kissed along your jaw between strokes.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. You can do it again. Let go for me—just like before.”

Your breath broke on a sob.

And then you did. It ripped through you like a storm, your body tensing, muscles clenching as you came around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once in a burst of heat and helpless motion. You buried your face in his neck, gasping into his skin, hips still twitching as aftershocks rolled through you.

He held you through it. Let you ride it out, stroking slow, languid circles against your clit as your body trembled against his.

Your thighs were slick. Your skin was flushed and glowing, pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You didn’t even realize you were still clinging to him, fingers curled tight into his shirt, until his hand came up to brush your hair gently back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice ruined and warm.

You nodded, dazed.

His eyes darkened. His hand still glistened with your slick, and the hunger in his gaze returned full force as he took your chin gently between two fingers, guiding your mouth back to his.

He kissed you slowly this time. Deep. Possessive. You whimpered into it, letting your body melt into his.

And that’s when the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw him.

Bucky’s hand didn’t stop moving. Didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked up—subtle, practiced—tracking the figure returning to your side of the lounge.

Cristian Dragomir.

The man was smiling now. Not the courteous kind. Not even the smarmy, rich bastard kind. No. This was something darker.

He came to stand just feet from your couch, watching as you barely managed to lift your head from where you’d collapsed against Bucky’s shoulder. Your dress was askew, cheeks flushed, lips red from his mouth.

You weren’t pretending anymore, and he knew it. Dragomir took a slow sip from his drink, eyes gleaming with something that looked far too much like satisfaction.

“You two,” he said, his Romanian accent curling around the words, “are… extraordinary.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He kept one hand at your waist, the other hidden between your thighs—but still. You let out a shaky breath and met Dragomir’s gaze.

He smiled wider. “You’ve impressed me. Very few ever do.”

You fought the instinct to shrink back. Instead, you shifted slightly in Bucky’s lap, letting your fingers trail idly across his jaw like you were that girl—intoxicated, enthralled, insatiable.

Dragomir watched the gesture with hooded eyes.

“I think,” he said finally, “we should get to know each other better. Somewhere more private.”

He turned on his heel with the smooth confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “Come. My personal rooms are this way.”

And then he walked off—just like that.

Not a request. A command.

You sat frozen for half a second.

Then Bucky leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’ve got him.”

You nodded, nerves returning now that the haze had lifted. Your legs felt like jelly. You didn’t trust yourself to stand.

Bucky kissed your cheek. “Let me help.”

You shifted off his lap, your thighs clenching involuntarily from the sensitivity still echoing through your body. His arm went around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you to your feet. You smoothed your dress down as best you could. Your underwear was still shoved to the side, your skin warm and swollen with afterglow.

He looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You swallowed thickly. So did he. You were both in way too deep. But there was no time to think about that now.

Because Dragomir had taken the bait.

And the trap was about to be sprung.

-

The hallway to Dragomir’s private suite stretched long and luxurious, the marble floors glistening beneath warm golden sconces. You walked beside Bucky in silence, your heels echoing against the polished stone, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. From behind, anyone watching would see the perfect picture of a woman who’d just been thoroughly ruined by the man on her arm. Which, in a way, wasn’t wrong.

You could still feel his fingers between your thighs. Still felt the quiver in your muscles and the ghost of your last climax lingering like perfume on your skin.

At the end of the corridor stood a tall door flanked by two guards, both built like ex-special forces. They said nothing—just opened the door and gestured you in.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Not a bedroom. Not a lounge.

A theater.

The suite was elegant and sprawling, the walls paneled in dark wood with sleek leather couches and a wet bar gleaming in the corner. But the focal point was the back wall, made entirely of glass—or so it seemed. The kind of glass that reflected the room back at you… until you looked closer.

And realized it didn’t reflect at all.

Your stomach turned as you stepped inside. That wasn’t a mirror. It was a window.

A one-way one.

Behind that glass, Dragomir was watching.

Somewhere in that darkness, hidden and invisible, he was waiting. Observing. Probably sitting in a plush chair with a drink in hand, waiting to see if you could prove you were worth his time. Worth his secrets. Worth the invitation into the next layer of his empire.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

Bucky stood beside you, silent. And then his hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours with slow certainty.

It was nothing the mission required. But it made your heart stutter anyway. He guided you toward the large, round bed in the center of the room—more of a platform, really. Draped in deep crimson sheets. Framed perfectly for the man behind the mirror.

You sat first. Bucky stood before you for a long moment, jaw tense, breathing slow.

“Eyes are on us,” he murmured.

“I know.”

You didn’t say it, but you could feel your pulse thrumming in every inch of your body. The last time had been overwhelming, raw. A wave of heat and desperation in the middle of a crowd. But now?

Now there was silence. And space. And with it came awareness. Of what you were doing. Of what it meant. Of how much more this would demand of you.

Bucky’s gaze softened. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will be. Just… follow my lead.”

You whispered, “Always.”

Then he moved. He stepped between your knees, bending slightly to press his mouth to yours—and this time, there was no show.

He didn’t kiss you like a man performing for a crowd. He kissed you like someone who’d been dying to do it for a long, long time. His lips slotted over yours with heat and purpose, coaxing rather than demanding. You kissed him back, hands rising to frame his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks as his tongue slid against yours in slow, deliberate strokes.

When he pulled back, just a breath apart, his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. “Lie back,” he whispered, voice low and steady.

You obeyed, reclining onto the bed, the cool satin of the sheets a jarring contrast to your heated skin. Your dress had already ridden up—one of the straps slipping off your shoulder—and Bucky caught it between his fingers, dragging it down slowly, reverently.

He bared you inch by inch.

And behind the glass, Dragomir watched. Leaned forward, even. But Bucky didn’t spare the mirror even a glance.

His eyes were on you. He shifted down the bed, pushing the skirt of your dress higher until it bunched at your waist, leaving your thighs bare to the air. He paused at your knees, trailing his hands upward, caressing your skin like it was a holy ritual. His mouth followed—planting kisses on the inside of your knee, then higher, then higher still.

Your breath hitched as he pressed his cheek to your thigh.

And then—he looked up.

Not at the mirror.

At you.

There was something in his eyes then. A silent apology. And maybe more than that. Maybe a promise.

Then he dipped his head. His breath fanned over your core, still tender and slick with arousal, still aching for more.

You gasped, fingers clenching the sheets. But he didn’t touch—not really. His lips ghosted along the crease of your thigh, featherlight, and when you arched instinctively toward him, he held you gently in place with one strong hand spread over your belly.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

His nose skimmed against you. His mouth hovered, lips parted. The faintest brush—like the first exhale of a prayer. Enough to make your hips jerk. Still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t give you what you were begging for without words.

He just watched your reactions. Fascinated. Wrecked.

Like he was coming undone from seeing you this way—laid out, trembling, open for him and only him. You whimpered, toes curling. His breath stuttered against you.

Your hand found his hair, carding through it slowly as your thighs fell farther apart in silent invitation. But he still didn’t touch.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, then the other.

His mouth traveled over skin with reverence, with restraint, his hands steady on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself in the moment, trying not to cross the final line—not here. Not in front of him.

But you knew. You knew he wanted to. That he was holding back only by the barest thread. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Or better.

Because you were holding on by a thread too. Your breath came in shallow gasps now, body twitching with every not-quite kiss, every near-touch. He murmured things into your skin—not for the mirror. For you. Little nothings in Romanian and English, reverent and dirty all at once. Like you were the offering. You were the altar.

You felt like one.

Your body was alive, sparking under every word, every pass of his breath, every scrape of his stubble. You ached for him. Craved him. And the longer he held back, the closer you came to the edge all over again—just from feeling him near you. Just from knowing he could. That he wanted to.

Then his voice reached you again, hoarse and trembling.

“I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my life.”

You believed him.

Because neither had you.

-

Time had lost all meaning.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been teasing you—his breath ghosting over your core, his mouth tracing reverent lines along your thighs, marks littering across your skin, his words spoken so low and hungry they felt like sin itself. You’d long since stopped pretending it was just for the mission. His hands on your skin, the gentle rock of your hips against the bed, the tremble in your limbs… it was all him. All real.

And still, he hadn’t truly touched you again. He was holding the line. Barely.

But something had shifted in him. Maybe it was how you were writhing beneath him. Maybe it was because there was no hiding how badly you wanted him. You saw it in the way his mouth followed the curve of your hip like he was worshiping it. In the way he whispered your name—not the code name, not an act. Yours. Spoken like a confession. So quiet that only you could hear it.

Then you felt his hands slide up your sides again, under your dress, slow and steady. He lifted you slightly, shifting your body effortlessly, and you let him—already boneless, dazed. It wasn’t until he pushed you gently down onto your stomach that you registered what was happening.

You gasped softly as the cool silk of the bed kissed your cheek, your chest flush against the sheets. One of Bucky’s arms curled around your hips, lifting them with ease. You followed, rising on your knees as he settled you in place—face down, ass up, utterly exposed.

Your panties were already shoved to the side, soaked and ruined. Now, he tugged them the rest of the way down and slipped them off.

You heard him sigh quietly through his nose, as if the sight of you this way was almost too much. Then the faint rustle of fabric as he pocketed them. No question. No comment. Just a silent claiming.

Your heart thundered.

Then—

His hard cock slid against your bare cunt, rutting just slightly. You cried out against him, rocking your hips back to meet his. His mouth found your lower back.

The softest press of lips. Then another. Slower. Lower.

He kissed down the curve of your spine like he was tracing a roadmap he’d studied in dreams, all while rocking his hips against yours. Each press of his lips made your thighs twitch, your breath catch. You bit the sheets as you felt his tongue sweep along the curve above your ass, and a sound escaped you—a desperate, needy whimper you couldn’t choke down.

Bucky groaned behind you, metal hand gripping your hip a little tighter. You were seconds from begging him to stop playing and just take you when the door behind you clicked.

A soft sound.

But deafening in the silence of the moment.

You froze. So did Bucky. You felt him still behind you, his hand still firm on your hip. He was the only thing anchoring you as the spell shattered and reality rushed back in like a storm.

A new presence stepped into the room.

“I must confess,” Dragomir said, his voice lazy and indulgent, “I was enjoying the view from behind the glass… but I find myself curious for something closer.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stayed frozen, heart pounding against the mattress, not daring to move. Bucky’s body shifted behind you, rising slowly—calculated. Smooth. A shadow cut between you and the mirror now.

You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the change in the air.

The heat gone cold. The hunter returned.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was low and calm. Measured like a blade being drawn.

“I think you’ve seen enough.”

Dragomir chuckled. “You think so? I could watch her for hours. Your little songbird… the way she opens for you…”

“I said,” Bucky repeated, voice darker now, “you’ve seen enough.”

You chanced a glance over your shoulder—and caught just a flash.

His face. Calm. Deadly. The glint of something hidden in his hand. Just below the waistline of his pants, he drew it in one fluid motion—silent, precise.

The tranq gun.

He didn’t wait.

The second Dragomir stepped close enough to breathe your air, Bucky raised the weapon and fired.

The dart hit center mass. Dragomir’s smirk faltered. Then he stumbled backward, hands grasping at his chest. Bucky stepped forward, shielding your body from view as the arms dealer crumpled to the floor without a word.

Just like that—you were done.

The room was still for a moment. Then Bucky turned, tucking the gun away in the hidden strap at his ankle before helping you up from the bed, one hand steady on your bare back.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, real.

You nodded, tugging your dress down with shaky hands.

He reached out and framed your face gently between both palms—flesh and metal, warm and cold. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

-

The rest moved fast.

Bucky carried Dragomir’s unconscious body over one shoulder while guiding you down a back corridor that the surveillance team had mapped earlier. Your comms buzzed back to life as you neared the extraction point, a coded pulse signaling successful acquisition.

You barely registered it.

Your mind was still on the bedroom. On his mouth. On the way his body had moved against yours like he needed you.

You weren’t sure if you were walking or floating.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Even when he had to maneuver Dragomir into the waiting car, he kept his fingers curled around yours like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear to break contact. When the doors closed behind you both, and the car peeled off into the Romanian night, he finally looked at you again.

You stared at each other in silence.

There was no mask now. No act. Just the aftershock of what you’d done—and what it meant.

Your dress was wrinkled. His shirt was open. You were covered in his marks and your panties were still in his pocket.

But the mission was done.

And nothing would ever be the same.

-

The silence was louder than any explosion you’d ever heard.

It followed you both as you left the mission behind—the body delivered, the asset secured, the team informed. It followed you through the late-night drive across the countryside, headlights streaking through endless dark. It followed you into the safe house tucked deep in the Carpathians, past stone walls and creaking floors, a fire already smoldering in the hearth.

It followed you down the hall when you didn’t speak. When Bucky didn’t reach for you. And it wrapped around you like fog when you shut the bathroom door behind you and turned the water on hot enough to scald.

You stood under the spray far too long, hands braced against the cool tile, water pounding your back like it could scrub off the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his voice. But it couldn’t. You still felt him. Not just on your skin.

Inside.

You hadn’t meant to lose yourself in it. But somewhere between the second kiss and the second orgasm, between the filthy Romanian murmurs and the aching way he’d kissed your shoulder, something had changed.

It had been a mission.

And then it hadn’t.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, still wet, and stared at your reflection. Your skin was flushed, your lips pink and full. Your thighs were sore and covered in his marks. Your chest still rose and fell like you hadn’t caught your breath since that room.

And you were trembling.

But not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. You were trembling because you still wanted him.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure if that made you brave—or weak.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary when you padded in barefoot, hair damp, body wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt you found folded at the edge of the bed. You hadn’t looked in the mirror again. You didn’t need to.

Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, collar undone, the scarred edge of his vibranium arm catching the firelight. He stirred something in a pan—simple, warm. Comfort food. A quiet offering.

Neither of you said anything when he plated it. Pasta, toasted bread, bits of roasted chicken. He poured water into a glass and set it beside your fork. You sat across from him at the small wooden table. The only sound was the clink of silverware and the crackle of the fire.

You tried to eat. But your throat was too tight.

Bucky barely touched his food.

Eventually, he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You didn’t look up until he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

Your head lifted slowly.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, voice hoarse. “I let the mission get to me. Let you get to me. I was supposed to keep you safe. Not make it worse.”

Your fingers tightened around your fork. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” he cut in. “I crossed a line. You asked me to take it further, and I wanted to. Wanted to go harder. That’s the part that fucks with me. I didn’t just go along with it—I wanted to be the one who made you come like that. I wanted to make you shake.” His voice cracked at the end. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He still wouldn’t look at you.

You set your fork down and swallowed the lump in your throat. Your voice was soft. Real.

“I’m still shaking.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours as you exhaled slowly, “Not because of shame. Or because of what you did. But because of what it felt like.”

He stared at you like you’d just confessed something sacred. “I’m not scared of you, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched. You stood up slowly, walking around the table until you were standing in front of him. His eyes tracked every step, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you.

You dropped to your knees between his, resting your hands on his thighs.

“You didn’t make it worse,” you whispered. “You made it harder to pretend it wasn’t real. That’s all.”

He exhaled sharply, knuckles whitening where his fists were clenched. You leaned in, resting your cheek against his knee. “I’m still aching,” you admitted, voice barely audible. “Not because you hurt me. But because you stopped.”

He let out a broken sound—somewhere between a curse and a prayer. You looked up. His hands reached for you slowly, hesitantly—one flesh, one metal. They hovered beside your face, trembling.

“I didn’t want your first time with me to be that,” he said, voice rough. “A job. A fucking performance. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You pressed into his palms. “It didn’t feel like a job.”

His eyes flicked between yours, searching, desperate. “Then what did it feel like?” he whispered.

You answered without fear. “Like you meant every touch.”

He swallowed hard. “I did.”

“And I wanted every one of them.” He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours, like your words had cracked something open. Then you whispered the truth you’d been holding back since the moment you left that mirrored room.

“Bucky… I didn’t get to finish that last time.”

He froze.

“I came before. Twice. But when you kissed down my spine…” You swallowed. “When you said you wanted me more than anything—you didn’t even touch me and I almost—”

His breath hitched.

“And then he walked in, and I had to pretend it didn’t matter,” you whispered. “But it did.”

He sat back slightly, his voice shaking.

“You’re still hurting because of me.”

You shook your head. “I’m hurting because I wanted more of you.”

His pupils dilated. And then he stood—fast and fluid—and pulled you up into his arms like he couldn’t bear another second without you.

-

Bucky didn’t kiss you right away.

He just held you. Arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck like he was trying to make sure you were real. His breath came hot and uneven, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Like he was drowning and you were the first breath he’d taken in years.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, your breath caught.

He looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint. Like he was on the verge of breaking—and afraid you’d vanish if he did.

“You sure?” he whispered. “Because if we do this… I won’t be able to stop. Not halfway. Not after everything I felt with you in that room.”

You lifted your chin, no hesitation in your voice. “Then don’t stop.”

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been dying for it—like the hours of teasing and pretending and aching had finally pushed him too far. His hands were everywhere. On your waist, in your hair, sliding beneath the oversized sweatshirt you wore like it offended him. He pulled it up and off, flinging it across the room without ever breaking the kiss.

You were bare underneath. No bra. Just you—flushed and warm and already breathless. His breath stuttered as he looked at you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You pressed your palms to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the old scars, the new ones. You leaned in and kissed the center of his sternum, just once, before whispering, “Touch me like it’s real now.”

Bucky groaned, low and deep in his chest. Then he lifted you.

You let out a small gasp as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your hands in his hair, lips back on his mouth. He carried you down the hall with ease, each step fast and precise, like he couldn’t wait one more second. When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut with his foot and laid you down on the bed like you were something fragile he finally got to hold without gloves.

He hovered over you, pressing kisses to your mouth, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. His metal hand smoothed up your thigh, cool and steady, grounding you. The contrast of temperature made you shiver.

“I thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every night since Berlin. Every time you leaned on me after a mission. Every time you smiled like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You reached down, palming the front of his pants—already hard, straining beneath the fabric. “I knew.”

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking. “You little brat,” he muttered, nose brushing yours. “You knew and you still let me suffer.”

You smirked. “You liked suffering for it.”

His hand slid between your thighs. “You’re damn right I did.” Then he was kissing you again, and this time it was slower. Deeper. Not hungry. Worshipful. He slid down your body, kissing over your belly, your hips. When he pressed your thighs apart and settled between them, his eyes locked on yours like he was asking one last time—

And you whispered, “Please.”

That was it.

His mouth found you, tongue licking a firm stripe up your center that made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands flew into his hair, thighs tightening around his head as he moaned against you. He devoured you—slow, methodical, then filthy and raw. Switching from broad strokes to soft flicks, curling his tongue just right until you were crying out, incoherent.

You came on his mouth, sobbing his name, clenching around nothing—and when he pulled away, lips wet, expression dazed, he kissed the inside of your thigh and whispered, “That’s one.”

You were still shaking when he kissed back up your body, trailing his hand between your breasts, teasing a nipple with his thumb as he rolled his hips down against yours.

You felt him. Thick. Heavy. Hard.

Your breath hitched.

“Condom?” he rasped, already breathless.

You shook your head. “I want to feel all of you. Just you.”

His eyes nearly closed, like the weight of that hit too deep. “You’re sure?” he asked.

You curled your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips barely touched. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then you reached between your bodies and slid his pants down, freeing him from the last barrier.

He groaned into your mouth as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly—learning the weight of him, the thickness, the way his hips bucked under your touch.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, teeth gritted.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want to.”

He lined himself up, head pressed against your entrance. His gaze locked on yours, expression tender and wild all at once. Then—slowly—he pushed in.

You both gasped at the same time. He was big. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that made your toes curl and your mouth fall open as your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “Eyes on me.”

You opened them. You watched him sink into you, watched his lips part and his brows furrow as he seated himself fully, hips flush against yours.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You feel like—like you were made for me.”

You cupped his face with both hands, eyes stinging. Then you rocked your hips once. He whimpered. Actually whimpered as his composure shattered.

“Fuck, baby, please,” he begged, voice cracked. “I need you. I need you so bad—please let me move—please, I’ll be so good—I’ll make it so good for you—”

You held him tighter. “Then do it,” you whispered. “Make it good. Make it better.”

And he did. He started to move, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, finding a rhythm that made the stars behind your eyes pulse. He rolled his hips just right, grinding deep. His mouth kissed everywhere—your jaw, your ear, the swell of your breasts—like he couldn’t bare to leave any part of you untouched.

You locked your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, crying out when he hit that spot that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s my girl. Take it—just like that—fuck, I love how you feel—I love—”

He stopped himself. Your breath caught. You stared at him, panting. He didn’t move. His chest heaved against yours.

The words hung in the air. You lifted a hand to his cheek. “Say it.”

His voice cracked. “I love you.” It broke from him like a storm, like a vow. Like it had been sitting in his chest for years and finally clawed its way out.

Your heart split open. “I love you,” he repeated, forehead pressing to yours. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but—God, I love you.”

Your hands tangled in his hair. Your lips kissed his mouth. “Then don’t stop loving me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, needier. You clung to him, gasping, crying out, right at the edge. “I’ll make it up to you,” he swore, voice unraveling. “Every day. Every time. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you—”

Then you came. He followed with a broken cry, spilling into you, arms wrapped so tight around you it felt like he’d never let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Not ever.

-

You woke to the smell of coffee and the feel of Bucky’s hand tracing lazy circles over your bare lower back. The sheets were a tangled mess around your hips. The mattress dipped slightly beneath him where he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent so he could cradle the mug in his hand. He looked unfairly good in nothing but a pair of sweats, hair still mussed from your fingers, chest kissed in red streaks from your mouth and nails.

You blinked sleepily, cheek still pressed into his side. “You made coffee?”

“Only if you’re nice to me.”

“I was very nice to you last night,” you muttered into his ribs, voice still husky from sleep—and moaning.

“Mm.” He sipped. “Can’t argue with that.”

You stretched with a groan, feeling sore in every way that made you blush. Between your thighs, along your hips, deep in your abs. You felt… used. Loved. Feral.

Ruined.

It was glorious.

His hand trailed down your spine, fingertips dancing over a spot you remembered all too well—right above your tailbone, where his lips had lingered just before—

“You pocketed my panties yesterday,” you said suddenly, voice flat with faux accusation.

Bucky coughed into his coffee. “I… what?”

You lifted your head slowly, giving him your best death glare. “I heard it. Back at the club. Right after you pulled them off. You tucked them into your pants like a perv.”

He smirked, all teeth and sin. “Perv? That’s rude. I was safeguarding evidence.”

“Oh? Gonna tag and bag it for S.H.I.E.L.D. archives?”

“They’re in my jacket pocket,” he said proudly. “I might frame them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Didn’t stop you from begging for it, sweetheart.” You launched a pillow at his face, which he caught one-handed like a smug bastard.

“I’m never gonna live this down,” you muttered, hiding under the sheets. “I can see the debrief now. ‘Agent compromised. Pantyless. Moaning.’ Yelena will never let me forget it.”

He reached under the covers, dragging you into his lap with zero effort, your naked body wrapping around him instinctively. He kissed your neck, slow and possessive, the hand on your thigh tracing the same maddening circles it always did when he wanted to make you squirm.

“You were more than compromised,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You were mine.” You flushed deep. But you didn’t deny it.

-

You arrived back at headquarters forty-eight hours later—rested, cleaned, still slightly raw from the way Bucky had insisted on making you come on his face before the flight. Twice.

The safehouse glow faded as soon as the elevator doors opened onto the briefing floor.

Val was waiting. So was Yelena. And Bob. And Ava. And every other team member who hadn’t been cleared for that op.

They were all staring at you.

And then—

“THERE THEY ARE!” Yelena crowed, practically climbing over the conference table to meet you halfway. “The performance of the century! Did you see the footage?!”

“You saw footage?” you asked, instantly mortified.

Bob waggled a tablet from across the room. “You were out of camera range most of the time. But the audio feed was… let’s say, deeply educational.”

“I had to turn it off,” Ava deadpanned. “You were making my ventilator blush.”

You turned to Bucky. “You told me there was no audio.”

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t wearing a wire.”

You shoved him. He caught you around the waist and pulled you in without hesitation, grinning against your temple.

Val stepped forward then, all business—but with a flicker of something suspiciously close to amusement in her eyes.

“You secured the target. You extracted without civilian casualties. And you somehow managed to break Agent Dragomir’s security web without tripping any alerts.”

She paused, nodding towards Bucky as she added, “he’s been asking for your ‘wife’ every day since.”

You blinked. “Wife?”

“He seemed to think you two were ‘passionately married’.” Val said dryly. “Wanted us to tell you he misses the way you moan.”

Bucky’s jaw cracked.

You coughed. “That’s… fine. He can miss me from prison.”

Val’s gaze lingered. “Mission accomplished. File your final reports by Friday. And maybe next time—” her eyes cut to Bucky, “—don’t steal any ‘evidence’.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just nodded, all calm and smug. “Too late. I’m keeping them.”

You groaned and walked straight out of the room.

-

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. After everything that had burned through you during the mission—every whispered plea, every desperate kiss—there was a stillness now.

A tenderness. You weren’t pretending anymore. You didn’t need to chase the heat to justify what you felt. You let the slow burn settle instead.

You stayed over that night. And the night after. He didn’t ask. You didn’t leave.

You cooked dinner together—though he chopped like a soldier, and you snuck vegetables into his pockets when he wasn’t looking just to see if he’d notice. You watched old movies on his couch. He pressed his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his chest.

You had long conversations at 1AM about nothing. About everything. He’d never had this before. The aftermath. The quiet. The softness of love without threat looming around the corner.

Neither had you. He walked you to your quarters every morning, hand in yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he wouldn’t.

And every time you parted—even for a moment—you looked back.

And so did he.

[clarkbarnes]

preciously mine

bucky barnes x medic!reader

summary: based on this request — recruited by the falcon himself and dragged out of your early retirement, you've started to work for the avengers as their one and only medic to keep them functioning and working after each and every mission. after a mission gone wrong, bucky barnes is forced to acknowledge your presence and finally seek out your assistance. after that? it's like the man can't leave you alone.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, oral (f receiving), makeout sesh, slight body worship, light choking, no use of y/n, language, fluff, brief angst, descriptions of injury, flashbacks of ptsd/trauma for reader, bucky's flirting in strange ways, reader is lowk horny, pet names (sweetheart, doll, soldier, sarge)

word count: 16k

a/n: i said i would post this yesterday...... i thought it was in the queue.......... my bad everyone. here it is now. also this was much longer than i intended it to be whoops

masterlist | bonus headcanon

Sterile antiseptic and latex is all you can smell right now as you work on sewing shut the body in front of you. You’d already followed out the previous steps– things that were automatic to your process. The bleeding had already been taken care of, and you were fine to continue on with the rest of your procedure. The wound was cleaned, the site was numbed, and you had the proper tools in hand to start your suturing. 

Your hands were smooth, your movements were precise– there’s no sweat coming off your brow. There’s nothing to be worried about.

“You know,” Sam murmured beneath you, “it would’ve been real nice if you were this calm back when we were on the field in Afghanistan.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “I was a rookie back then. So were you. Now shut up before I ‘accidentally’ stab you with this needle the wrong way, just like the old days.”

“That’s cold,” he whispered, but there’s a smile playing on his lips despite the pain that he’s in– a good sign. There’s some color that’s returned to his face now, and his breathing had finally evened out from how it was when he was first brought to your table. 

You finished out your work on his torso, and bandaged him up. You could go into a long winded spiel on infection, and how he needs to keep the wound area clean to make sure that he doesn’t get sick otherwise he’ll have to come see you, but one look at Sam’s face tells you that you don’t even need to say it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off, carefully rolling over to his side to push himself off the table. You cringed slightly at the way he sat up– he’ll pop his stitches at this rate. “I know. You talked my ear off for years.”

“And here I thought, you never listened,” you scoffed, beginning to clean up the area around you.

“Oh, I don’t. I just let you think I do.”

You fight back the desire to roll your eyes at him, and he laughed– or at least he attempted to. Sam’s hand flies to his side, and he groans in pain. Instant karma. The numbing injection could only do so much for the pain, after all.

“Want me to prescribe you some painkillers?” you offered, a hum on your lips.

“Fuck you.”

You grinned, already pulling out a bottle from the medication cabinet to toss over to him. He catches it, obviously, but if he was who he was a few years ago? His reflexes wouldn’t have been this sharp. Sam had come a long way since the Air Force, and you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t proud of him.

Hell, you had come a long way from the Air Force.

You still remembered when he knocked on your door, and asked you if you wanted to join the Avengers initiative. You laughed in his fucking face, thinking that it was a joke– that it was just some funny opener that he was hitting you with after not seeing you for a while to make you smile after your shared grief of losing Riley. But Sam didn’t laugh. 

He said they needed someone reliable, a good medic on the team to patch them up after their missions— told you it was too much work and money to keep flying doctors into the country from other parts of the world. 

You had the same experience that Sam did, which was what he used to argue with you that you were more than qualified to join this team. You couldn’t really say anything against him when he brought up your history together. The two of you had been hand chosen straight out of basic training for the Falcon initiative, which was covered up to be known as the pararescue team that served two tours. 

Sam spent two weeks knocking on your door daily— sometimes multiple times a day. He wasn’t asking anymore. He was begging you to join him, to come back and fight beside him like you once did.  

You told him that you didn’t know if you were worthy of being an Avenger– not after what happened all those years ago. You couldn’t even save the people that you were supposed to protect during the war overseas. How were you supposed to protect the entire world?

So, you compromised. You would be their medic, just like he was asking you to do– but you didn’t want to necessarily join the Avengers in the way that he was doing it. You would keep up with the training to keep your body in shape if they really needed you– but you told Sam that you couldn’t live with yourself again if you lost someone right in front of you on the field. 

He understood. So, saving the world became his thing, while saving the Avengers’ lives became yours.

More times than not, you still ended up joining the Avengers on their longer missions away from the base. You wouldn’t necessarily join them on the ground, but you would stay back on the jet. You would keep an eye on the monitors that tracked each and every single one of their vitals, making sure that none of them entered dangerous territories of stress levels or suddenly passed out somewhere without anyone knowing. 

You were also there as their emergency evac if it was ever needed. You had military experience on the field, but Natasha helped train you to move more stealthily so that you could get across a battlefield without anyone noticing. 

When things were said and done, and if everything went miraculously well, all you had to do at the end of missions was just check up on everyone. Do quick, fine tune-ups, to make sure that everyone was alright– that they were cleared for the next mission without any concussions or any other traumatic brain injuries that would put them out of work for a couple of weeks. 

You’d treated almost every single one of the Avengers at one point. 

Shit– you’d become somewhat of a mechanic and a scientist overnight for what you had to do for these guys. After all– they weren’t fully human.

Steve was the first one to trust you with a more interesting question based on his genetic code. You should’ve expected it, honestly– Steve was the closest to Sam, and Sam constantly sang your praises to anyone that would listen.

“The serum that I was given– I don’t know if you know too much about it,” Steve said with a sigh as you patched up a gash on his arm.

“I’m kinda aware of it,” you hummed. “What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s supposed to accelerate my healing,” he said slowly, “but I feel like my muscles are still too tense these days? Like knots are forming all over my back– I think it’s affecting how I move on missions.”

You paused at his words, nodding slowly. You finished up on his arm before going around behind him, slowly running your hands around his back before sucking in a deep breath. 

“You do have some muscle tension,” you murmured softly. “Do you ever get massages? I think it might help.”

“I didn’t think super soldiers need massages.”

Your hands stopped their examination, and you stared at the back of his head, blinking at him. You let out a slow, deep breath before closing your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself down. 

“Steve… You’re still human. You know that right? Your body will still hold tension and trauma whether you like it or not,” you said slowly.

“... Ah.”

You made Steve come back to your lab once a week so you could bully the knots out of his back, digging your elbows into his muscles until there was nothing left that could cause him discomfort. Then, you made him go see a massage therapist once a month. 

After that, you studied more of his mannerisms. You took note of how long his body healed compared to a regular human, and how fast he could run a mile– how much food he ate compared to Sam. You were studying everything about this enhanced human’s biology in case he came to you with something else.

Except the next person that came to you was Rhodey. Asking if you could help him out with his prosthetic because it wasn’t working properly and he wasn’t able to walk like he usually was.

“I’m not a mechanic,” you said slowly.

“Weren’t you in the Air Force?”

“Yes, but–”

“With Sam?”

“I mean–”

“Then you should have some basic understanding, right?”

“Rhodey–”

“Tony’s not here. You’re the closest help I can get, please.”

You prayed to every God out there that you didn’t fuck up the delicate technology of his metal braces. Honestly– this was more stressful than any other life saving technique that you had to do on the field. 

That night, you studied Stark’s machinery. You opened up his manuscripts and went through his lab. You made his stupid A.I. walk you through everything to help you out with the things that you couldn’t wrap your head around– and when Tony came back from wherever he went? You slammed his blueprints in front of him and made him explain.

That man was a little too excited to talk your ear off. 

Just when you thought that you had finally gotten a break, you had another visitor. One that made your blood run cold when you saw her waiting for you outside your med bay. Still, you invited her inside and asked her what you could do to help her. 

“Sometimes I feel a burning sensation under my skin," Wanda told you as she sat on your examination table. “Do you know what causes that?”

You could only stare at her blankly, a million different thoughts racing through your head. 

NO! you want to scream at her. I DON’T KNOW!!

Instead, you give her a smile and nod in understanding. “Does it feel like that right now?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Is it okay if I take a sample of your blood?” you asked, already moving towards your supplies. “And the next time you feel that burning sensation, come to me immediately so I can take another sample. I want to compare the two different blood samples to see if there’s a difference.”

Wanda nodded like you had somehow made a dent in cracking the code towards her existence as an enhanced individual– but you had no idea what you were doing past rubbing an alcohol wipe on the inside of her elbow and wrapping the tourniquet around her bicep.

Strangely enough– there was a difference in her blood. 

“Overuse,” you told her, exhaustion thick in your voice. “Your powers are burning into your blood, and mixing into your bloodstream. You’re basically ripping your blood cells apart. You need to be more careful, or just get a better grasp on your powers. Try to train more and increase your endurance.”

The only person that you have not had the pleasure of helping?

Sergeant James Barnes.

Part of you believed that he didn’t even know you existed. In fact, if it wasn’t for his curt nods of dismissal when you tried to check him over after missions, then you would’ve completely assumed that he didn’t even know that you were around. 

Bucky had been injured. More than once. You’d seen him walk onto the jet before, limping, holding onto his side, and closing his eyes while trying to pretend that everything was alright. Each time– he denied your help. Well, he didn’t even deny it. He didn’t even talk to you. He actively avoided your gaze, and only nodded at you if it was unavoidable.

You would’ve thought that you had done something to offend him, to bother him– but you had never even had a conversation with this man. No– you’d never even spoken one word to this man. Your interactions with him were limited to a nod, a head shake, and one second eye contact from across the jet. When you were in the compound? He walked straight by you in the hall like you were part of the air in the room.

You wondered if it had anything to do with his former Winter Soldier status, even though he wasn’t that guy anymore Right now, he was just another one of the Avengers to you. Albeit, he was a little grumpy, a tad bit mysterious, and very easy on the eyes.

You weren’t bothered by his lack of visits to your med bay. You figured that he just didn’t want strangers to touch him. You didn’t blame him for that. Besides, it’s not like he was required to use your services whenever he was hurt. You were there to help out if any of them needed you, and that’s all. 

After all— if none of them needed your help ever again, then that was the best gift they could ever bestow upon you.

The supply drawer slid shut with a satisfying click, and a smile fit over your face. 

Finally, you were done organizing the med bay. You’d gotten a new round of supplies a month back while you were out on a week-long mission with half the team, and returned to find that some of the recruits had just… haphazardly restocked your place. You wanted to scream when you saw everything. 

The rational part of you made you realize that you didn’t label any of your drawers or cabinets. Then again, you didn’t ever think that you needed to. It was only you that went through the items, only you that restocked the med bay, and only you that distributed everything. You had your system in your own head, and you didn’t need to explain it to anyone.

Except, it seemed that you needed to now.

You didn’t even have the time to organize everything for a while. The back to back missions, the influx of injuries that rolled through your doors– you had to make do with what you had, and fix everything as you went along, grumbling under your breath.

Now? Everything was right where it should be, even though it was nearing three in the morning. Still, sacrificing your sleep for this was worth it. You would wake up to find your workplace fully functional and prepared for another work week, and you would send out an order for the next restock to be simply left in its box if you’re not around to take care of it yourself. 

“Visitor outside Med Door One,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice suddenly rang through your lab, alerting you.

You paused, sitting up straighter on your stool as you turned towards the door– Med Door One was near where the hangar was. It was where the team would filter in after they came back from missions. You weren’t aware of anyone being dispatched. 

“Unfrost the glass, please,” you muttered, eyebrows still furrowed.

“Right away,” the A.I. replied immediately.

The entire glass wall turned clear, and you startled. Bucky was standing on the other side of the glass, a trickle of blood coming down from his temple along with a bruise on his cheek. He was nursing his vibranium arm, clutching it towards his torso, and leaning against the glass slightly. His eyes met yours without the obstruction in the way, and you immediately shifted out of your seat, breath catching in your throat.

“Unlock the doors,” you ordered, already moving towards him.

The glass slid open, and Bucky pushed off the walls. The man gave you a brief nod of acknowledgment as he attempted to appear undeterred by the injuries all over his body. 

“Didn’t think you’d be awake,” he forced out.

“I didn’t think you were gone,” you breathed, hands shooting out on either side of him in case he stumbled forth. “What happened to you?”

“Solo op,” he grunted, a low hiss escaping through his teeth as he took a few steps forth. “Left early this mornin’.”

“Jesus, Barnes,” you whispered, backing up slowly as he continued to step forward. Your eyes raced all over him, trying to take in his physical state. It was hard to decipher how badly he was injured with all his tactical gear still on his body, but from the way he was limping? “Why didn’t you radio back to base?”

“I made it back in one piece, didn’t I?” 

You don’t know whether to feel relieved or to shoot him where he stands. 

For now, you choose to lead him to the examination table instead, and you’re grateful that the soldier doesn’t dismiss you like he usually does when he’s injured. There’s a soft noise of pain that exits his lips when he manages to sit down, and you’re already reaching for your gloves.

“Is it okay if I take a look at you?”

“My arm is what’s killin’ me the most,” he muttered. “If you can do anything for that, then shit– go ahead. I think there’s a wire out of place in the bicep.”

Your hands freeze mid-pull of the latex glove, and your eyes drop down to the glistening vibranium arm. You can see it– the slight tremor of the metal, the involuntary twitching against his body as Bucky attempts to keep the prosthetic under his control. You suck in a tight breath, and remove the gloves on your hand, and go for a different drawer in your office– a toolbox that you had for when Rhodey came to bother you. 

Bucky looked briefly surprised when you turned back towards him, dragging your stool with you to sit in front of him, but there was no protest. His flesh hand dropped back down to his lap, and he let out a small sigh.

“Do the plates just pop out?” you asked softly, swallowing thickly. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous about this. Now that you were sitting right in front of him, you could hear the faint buzzing coming from within his arm, almost mocking you about your lack of experience with this kind of thing.  

“Yeah– just… be gentle,” he murmured, his voice tight. 

Your eyes flitted back up to his face, meeting his gaze. He didn’t look nervous per se, but he didn’t look relaxed either. His body was wound up tightly– and you had always known Bucky to already be a pretty tense guy. Even for him, this was pretty bad. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders were squared off– even his thigh muscles were flexed like he was waiting for the impact of something to hit him.

You could chalk it up to the fact that he had other injuries that were bothering him, but that wouldn’t be right either. You weren’t sure where his solo mission took him, but if Bucky didn’t even try to patch himself up on the way back to the base, then you were certain that he wasn’t even able to take care of himself with the amount of stress that his arm was putting him in. 

Shit– you weren’t even sure that Bucky ever had an issue with his arm in the past before, let alone let anyone touch it before. You didn’t even think Tony was allowed to make tweaks with it after Wakanda gifted it to him. If there had been any issues with his arm, then there weren't any incident reports logged in that you were ever made away of. 

“Can you take your arm off for me?” 

“With how it’s shocking my every nerve right now? I really wish I could.”

A shaky breath exited your lips as you looked back down at his arm– the vibranium seemingly shining back into your eyes under the sterile lighting of your lab. It really was pretty. You enjoyed looking at his arm– to steal a glance at it on the jet whenever you had the chance. 

Slowly, you reached out to touch him. You wondered briefly if he could feel the weight of your hands underneath the metal– if there were some sensors that were built into the new prosthetic that was gifted to him. You wondered how badly his arm was hurting him right now, and if your touch only added to the pain he was feeling.

You gently traced over the vibranium, your eyes studying the onyx and gold design as you felt each groove and plat beneath your fingertips. You were searching for the point of impact– where he had sustained the most damage for him to be complaining of some kind of pain. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you the entire time, watching you with an intensity that made your heart race.

It could be from the fact that you’d never treated him before. He’d never been under your care– he’d never been one of your patients. Out of the lengthy time that you had worked with him, this was the closest that you had ever been to the man, and this was the first and longest conversation that you had with him. You could laugh, honestly. You wanted to, if it weren’t for the fact that you had to deal with Wakandan technology and the highest level of technology you were ever formally trained to deal with was U.S. military.

You reached for your toolbox, and released a breath. You steadied your hands. This would be like any other procedure– you didn’t have to be nervous. If anything, the stakes were lower. There was no blood. Just some open fucking nerve endings that were directly connected to his arm, shooting pain directly into the rest of his body.

No pressure at all.

Gently, the plates on his arm came open. A soft puff of air escaped your lips– one that you didn’t even know you were holding. Your heart still hammered in your chest regardless, and you were certain that Bucky could hear it from how close you were to him. Maybe he could even sense the anxiety rolling off of you. If he did, he didn’t say anything– didn’t even make it known that he noticed. 

You were careful as you placed each of the vibranium pieces on the bedside table next to you, memorizing exactly which piece went where, and not taking out more than what needed to come out. You studied the hinges inside his arm, making sure that there wasn’t anything that you were missing as you took him apart.

Then, you saw it. 

The soft, electrical shock in his arm– a wire connected inside. 

“Fuck– what happened?” you murmured, eyes narrowing at the inside of his arm before you reached for the next appropriate tools.

“Asshole jammed this thing in between the plates– pumped me with several thousand watts of electricity. I think I’m lucky only one wire came loose,” he murmured back to you.

“Thing, huh?” you repeated with a laugh. “Can’t even tell me what it was?”

“I was a little busy trying not to die, sweetheart.” Despite the amount of pain he was feeling, he was well enough to hit you with a sarcastic remark— a great sign of his physical and mental wellbeing.

“Well, you did good on that front,” you told him, and looked up to meet his gaze before giving him a grin. “I’ll put you back into one piece, soldier.”

There was a soft chuckle of a response from him— gentle and light. Your hands paused, allowing the moment to pass before you went back into his arm to start poking and prodding once again. (This was an excuse. You wanted to listen to the soft rumble of his laughter.)

You tore your gaze away from his face, and looked back down to his arm, trying to focus once more at the task at hand. 

“I’ll contact Wakanda tomorrow morning… Talk to Princess Shuri, make sure that there isn’t anything else I need to do for you,” you said softly as you began to connect the wire back into its rightful socket. You took a mental note of the positioning, the color of the wiring, and everything else that you could think of. “Make sure that there’s nothing that we need to replace or fix so that it doesn’t become some sort of chronic pain for you.”

“You don’t have to do all of that,” Bucky sighed, shaking his head in dismissal. “It’s fine– I’ll figure it out if it happens again.”

“Are you gonna be able to pry apart the plates yourself if your arm goes to shit— You wanna scratch Wakandan vibranium?” you asked, glancing up at his face briefly.

Bucky met your eyes, and closed his mouth. He just stared back at you, and didn’t respond. You gave him a small smile, then turned back to the metal in front of you. You let out a small gasp as the wire finally connected, and the small buzzing noise in his arm stopped. 

“Flex your hand– be careful. Your arm is open. Think of it as if your arm is skinned,” you quickly warned him, almost frantic with your words.

“You’re kinda dramatic, Doc.”

“I’m being cautious, Sarge. Have you ever tried that?” you shot back.

A small scoff fell from his lips, and Bucky rolled his eyes– but there was a twitch of his lips, like he was mildly amused. It was there, just ever so slightly there, before it was gone– replaced by the perpetual stoic and generally irritated look he usually wore. 

Bucky’s fingers twitched first, almost as if he was afraid to move. The movement was slight and slow, but he eventually created a full fist with a slow breath exiting his lips. Soon, his palm opened back up, and he felt brave enough to lift his arm halfway up, and your own sigh of relief escaped your body. 

“You fixed me,” he reported, his entire body relaxing with his words.

“Told you I would. Now try not to die from things out in the field,” you hummed. 

“Alright—“

“I’ll get some replacement parts for wires and plates sent over from Wakanda,” you cut him off, humming to yourself. You reached for the loose plates that were at your side table, ready to put him back together. “I think you got lucky that nothing was fully damaged– just dislodged– but you’re not leaving my med bay without stitches on your flesh wounds though.”

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t argue with you. After you carefully put back together his metal arm, you were able to move onto his actual body– which was a hell of a lot easier on your nerves than the vibranium Wakandan tech on him. 

You breathed easier when your mind wasn’t racing a thousand miles an hour, and you didn’t have to force your hands to stop shaking under the constant pressure of fearing that something would go wrong. Bucky, of course, was as still as a statute the entire time. You were just glad that he didn’t complain when you told him to take off his gear so you could inspect his body. 

The sun was coming up over the horizon by the time you were done with your full examination on the soldier. You’d gone through several syringes of lidocaine in stronger doses– something that you learned that needed to be done when you had to patch up Steve– and had laced even more stitches through Bucky’s skin, but the man was finally in one whole piece before you. 

“If you take those stitches out yourself, I’ll kill you,” you threatened under your breath as you watched him slide off the table. “Come back here in three days.”

“Only three?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“You and Steve heal faster than the others,” you dismissed, clearing off the last of your workspace. “I’ll come look for you in two days and check your progress, but I think three should be more than enough. How’s the arm?”

Bucky’s arm rotated from the shoulder in a quick circular motion, and you could hear the gears whirring as he moved. His hand opened and closed experimentally, then he extended his arm outwards. All the while– the light shined upon the vibranium plates, the golden detailing gleaming against the black like starlight. It really was like artwork attached directly towards his body. 

You had to remind yourself to not openly stare at him.

“Good as new. I’ll let you know if it bothers me again,” he told you, grabbing his gear that you had stripped off of his body so you could have examined him properly. 

He was barely halfway out the door when you spoke again.

“I’m putting you on bed rest until those stitches come out, soldier.”

Bucky froze in his place, and turned back to look at you– to see if you were being serious about what you had just said. You could only give him an innocent smile before you sent off the report on your tablet. Moments later, a matching buzz resounded on his own phone– everyone on the team was now aware that he wasn’t allowed to be on missions or in training.

“You fuckin’ traitor,” he whispered, betrayal and a hint of respect written all over his face.

Strange things began to happen around you.

You sent out the order to make sure that no one would restock your lab on their own, only to find out that someone else had already done it for you.

Except, there was no log of it.

There wasn’t an incident report, and none of the recruits would tell you. In fact, they all looked like they were about to shit their pants whenever you brought it up. Last time you pressed one of the recruits, they ended up scrambling to check the security cameras because they mistakenly believed that you were asking because someone else had restocked your med bay without your permission and they needed to find out who to rat out. 

You had no idea what was going on. You didn’t even get a chance to tell them that no one had restocked– that you were just trying to get answers on who gave the order out before you could. In the end, it benefitted you, so you weren’t too upset about it. 

If this was all that happened, then maybe you would’ve left everything alone. Maybe the coincidences wouldn’t have bothered you as much.

You mentioned to Natasha that you were running out of your preferred bullet rounds– but it wasn’t urgent for Tony to order since it wasn’t often that you actually ended up going out into the field. You just wanted to let her know for whenever she did a bulk order of her own rounds so she could add your casings to it.

Two days later, you had a whole box on your bed, along with two extra handguns. It was the exact same brand and type that you specifically used– one that Natasha normally told you had you waitlisted for a few months when she ordered it directly from the supplier from how difficult it was to make. Naturally, you brought it up with the assassin the next time you saw her.

“I didn’t order anything yet,” she said, shaking her head. “I order everything at the end of the month, remember?”

“But on my bed…” you trailed off, gesturing down the hall towards your room. “Who got me the casings?”

Natasha only tilted her head at you, eyebrows furrowing as she stared at you. “I didn’t order anything,” she repeated to you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” you said slowly then shook your head. “Never mind. I must’ve– uh. Sorry. I thought I was running out of ammo. I’m good. You don’t have to order me anything.”

Her confusion only deepened with your words, but you were spiraling. You managed to dismiss yourself from the conversation before you made things even more awkward. 

It wasn’t even limited to supplies or work-related items. 

After sending out a text in the shared group chat asking to borrow a phone charger for a couple hours because yours was acting up, you found yourself with a new phone charger in your room that same night– in the box with the plastic wrap untouched and everything. 

Later, you found a gift box on your work desk. Upon further inspection, you found that someone had mysteriously gifted you an assortment of your favorite time of the month snacks along with a fresh bottle of Tylenol. You were briefly disturbed, only until a brief memory came to mind of you asking Clint to pick up some feminine products from the store for you when he went out into the city.

“I only got you those pads and tampons you asked me for,” he said, holding his hands up in defense when you cornered him in the hall. “Besides, how would I know that you liked Ferrero Rocher chocolate? Or dried mangoes? You do your own grocery shopping unlike the rest of us– we make Tony have our shit delivered to the compound every other week since we’re too fuckin’ lazy to go out into the city. I only went out because I was getting some shit for my kids, and stopping at the store was just on the way–”

“You’re the only one I mentioned to that my period was coming up,” you hissed at him, frowning. “Are you the one that got me those guns, too?”

“Shit, someone got you guns and chocolate? You have a secret admirer, doc?” he asked, a teasing grin matching the light in his eyes. “I’m not gonna lie, that sounds like one hell of a way to flirt. Has your suitor tried getting you a new scalpel yet? Maybe some latex gloves?”

You’ve never wanted to strangle the archer so bad in your life. Unfortunately you took the Hippocratic Oath, and you had to let him free.

Your breaking point came when you said you wanted to start reading again in your free time, but had no idea what to read. An assortment of different books were waiting for you— science fiction, self help, and fantasy. All different things you enjoyed, but had never once spoken out loud. 

You searched the security cameras. You set up your own cameras in discrete corners, and didn’t tell a single soul. Whoever was leaving you these little gifts either didn’t exist, or had some sort of power that allowed them to be undetected by modern technology because you could never catch them. 

F.R.I.D.A.Y. was specifically ordered not to allow anyone into your room or med lab without your permission— only for you to find a pair of brand new combat boots waiting for you at the edge of your bed. 

The stupid fucking A.I. wouldn’t even tell you who managed to break through her security protocols. Tony couldn’t even figure it out, much to his dismay. Part of you felt bad for giving him something else to work on, on top of upgrading the entire team’s gear— but shit someone managed to bypass a Level One order and there wasn’t a trace. 

“I thought you were my friend,” you said into the void. 

“I apologize, doctor,” the A.I. replied to you. 

“I’m not a doctor,” you scoffed, shaking your head as you organized your notes on your most recent findings on Steve— the man purposely didn’t sleep as much as he should, but when he didn’t have anything to do? He slept like a man who had more than twenty four hours in one day. 

“The others refer to you as a doctor,” a new voice chimed in as the doors to your med bay slid open. 

“Didn’t go to med school, Barnes,” you said, pushing back from your desk to take a look at him.

Bucky was dressed in a compression shirt that left little to imagination, and you wondered if there was really no other size left for him to take when he joined the team. Then again, he also could’ve just gained all that muscle. Still, he could’ve worn another fucking shirt before coming to your lab. You could see every single line and ridge of his muscles with each movement and breath. 

“How can I help?” you asked, deciding to play off your blatant staring as a medical check.

“I have a contusion,” Bucky said.

“What?” you barked out before you could stop yourself. 

“You know, internal bleeding caused by—“

“I know what a bruise is,” you cut him off, holding a hand up to stop him from speaking further. “I— what do you want me to do about that?”

“Don’t you check out our injuries?” he asked, as if he was speaking the obvious. Which— yes. Obviously. You did check out their injuries. But none of them came to you for a fucking bruise. 

You could only stare at him, briefly wondering if the man was bullshitting you. Was this his attempt for conversation after fixing his arm, after ignoring your presence for who knows how long?

He wasn’t backing down from this. 

Bucky held your gaze, expectant and waiting for you to do something about his playground injury. You quickly realized that you would be fighting a losing battle if you didn’t just give in to his request. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Show me your… contusion.”

He took off his fucking shirt.

Your mouth went dry– and if you weren’t blatantly ogling him before? You definitely were now. You thought the compression shirt left little to your imagination? You were wrong. There was plenty hiding underneath the thin piece of fabric that he uncovered for you, now fully showcased. 

A thin layer of sweat clung onto his body, and you guessed that he had come straight from the gym— which would explain why his body looked so fucking massive right now. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his abdomen muscles rippled as he shifted to the side to drape his shirt over a free table. 

Last time he was in your med bay, there was no need for him to strip down to his skin. He didn’t complain of any torso injuries, just some lacerations on his face, arm, and another cut to his leg that you took care of. 

Honestly, the human body shouldn’t affect you like this, not when you’ve studied it like your life depended on it, but this was different. This was a walking statue of pheromones and all things unholy and filled with temptation. 

“Doc?” Bucky called out to you, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Where’s the bruise, Sarge?” you asked, snapping out of it as fast as you could. 

The soldier turned his back to you, and you felt the final nail plunge into your coffin. He straightened his spine, his back muscles shifting along in the process as he did. You couldn’t help but lock your gaze onto him, the broad shoulders, the large wingspan of him—  Jesus Christ. 

Yeah. You were going to hell.

You forced yourself to collect your thoughts, clearing your throat lightly as you looked down his back. You saw it. The light purplish blue spot. Gently, you reached out, fingers resting upon his warm skin. Bucky didn’t flinch, but you didn’t press against him to elicit such a reaction either. You simply just grazed upon the hurt, feeling for any swelling or lump.

“Doesn’t feel like a hematoma, doesn’t appear to be large enough to be one either,” you muttered, a frown settling upon your face. “You’ll be fine, Barnes. Why did you come to me for this?”

Bucky shrugged, already reaching for his shirt. “Just making sure that it wasn’t anything serious.”

“I’m watching the discoloring fade back into your regular skin color in real time,” you pointed out, still zoned in on the injury. It was a fascinating scene– being able to watch as his body healed itself before your very eyes.

“Then write it down in your notes,” he said, tugging the black fabric of his shirt back over his head. “Better yet– start a file for me with all the other freaks on the team that you take care of. James Buchnanan Barnes, in case you forgot my full name.”

You almost missed it. The hint of jealousy in his voice– the way he didn’t turn back to meet your gaze. Your eyebrow twitched slightly as you stared at the back of his head, assessing him in a way that you had never seen him before.

You cleared your throat, and reached to push a couple files to the side. Bucky couldn’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him as he heard you shuffle some papers around.

A smile fit over his face as he saw it on your desk– clear as day. A folder with his name written on it, with your handwritten notes already tucked away neatly inside of them. When his pretty blue eyes met yours, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile.

“I’ll add your little boo-boo to your incident report log, soldier.”

“You fuckin’ suck, sweetheart.”

Despite his words, Bucky still kept coming to you. In fact, you began to see more of him than you had ever seen before. It’s as if the barrier between the two of you had somehow got torn apart like it was never there.  

The next time he came to you, you almost ripped your brain apart. You were completely, extremely, and utterly distraught, as if you had somehow managed to miss something in the few years of research that you had been doing on Steve.

“You… have a headache?” you asked him slowly.

“Yeah. A horrible migraine,” he replied, nodding to you.

“Rate it on a scale of one to ten,” you told him, already reaching for your computer to pull up Steve’s archived notes. “Ten being: Please sedate me bad.”

“Uh– six.”

Your fingers paused over your keyboard. That wasn’t a horrible number, but not the best either– especially not for a super soldier. Six usually meant that the pain deterred a person from being able to do their tasks without thinking about the symptoms they were under, and he described his headache as a migraine. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you took in a sharp breath, looking back at him.

“Yeah, fine– sorry,” you muttered quickly, quickly browsing through Steve’s medical history. You didn’t find a single thing that could help you, and a soft curse exited your lips. You reached for your gloves, and quickly crossed the room towards him, already herding him towards where you wanted him to go. “Can you get on the examination table for me?”

“It’s– it’s a headache,” he stuttered, bewildered at your sudden hovering.

“Steve said that he doesn’t get headaches, and the serum that you got was developed after him which means that technically– you should be developmentally better than him biologically speaking,” you told him.

From the look in your eye, Bucky couldn’t help but listen to your orders, and got on the table. You kept him in your med bay for a while, trying to figure out why the hell his head was hurting– but he stuck to the same script. Said he woke up wrong, and the pain just kept increasing throughout the day.

There was an abnormal amount of muscle tension across his neck and back when you ran your hands across his body, but there weren't any of the same muscle knots that Steve had. 

“I stretch before and after training,” he muttered when you brought it up. His voice was a bit lower, slightly thicker. You figured it was from the pain he was feeling in his head. 

“You and Steve might just be carrying tension in your muscles differently,” you said with a frown, smoothing your hands over his shoulders. “He has back pain. You get headaches– makes sense though– are the headaches left side dominated since the metal weighs you down? I see you compensate for the weight, but when you’re tired you sometimes lean.”

Bucky paused for a second, then looked over his shoulder at you. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything, Barnes.”

His eyes stayed fixed onto your face for a bit, something unreadable in his gaze. You watched as he wet his lips slowly, and turned to face forward again. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the actions under your hands.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Left side dominant migraine.”

“I’m prescribing you 2000mg of ibuprofen.”

Bucky spun around to face you once more, and you could read the expression on his face this time– fucking shock and doubt. “Sweetheart, are you trying to kill my liver? What the hell are you going to do when it shuts down from shock?”

“Did you forget who you are, soldier?” you asked, staring at him with equal amounts of disbelief. “Your liver will chew through a regular dose of 200mg of ibuprofen and shit it out like it’s a tic tac– take 2000mg or you’ll spend the rest of the week with your own personal drummer using your head as its instrument.”

He grumbled, but you watched him swallow down the cup of pills you poured out from your stash in the medicine cabinet along with the water from your own personal water bottle. You quietly realized you would need to get a water dispenser in the med lab. Even so, you weren't in any rush to do so as you drank out of the same water bottle when he left.

Bucky continued to come to you for more… superficial wounds that didn’t require you to do a full body examination on him. You never meant to downplay the injury or the pain that he may or may not be feeling, but the super soldier came to you for you to blow on his scrapes. You were wondering what the hell his thought process was in his head, but you also couldn’t just turn away a patient. 

He had the leg of his sweatpants tugged up past his knee, but the fabric was strained against the thick muscle of his thigh. You had to force yourself to ignore the fact the stitches were basically ripping at the seams.

“This will heal in like, an hour, Bucky,” you told him. “You barely fell on your knee– this was definitely through the clothes.”

“You stopped calling me by my last name,” he said, ignoring your words of examination. His voice was soft– softer than you had ever heard it before. “When did that happen?” 

Suddenly, you were keenly aware of the fact that you were kneeling in front of him– the position you had so naturally assumed when he had exposed his leg to you, and he was just staring down at you. You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and you knew that he could see it. 

“Focus, soldier,” you replied, snapping your fingers in front of his face. You pointed your index finger between his face and yours, connecting a line between his eyes to yours. “Back to the scrape.” 

You didn’t know if you were telling him or yourself, honestly. There was a smile on his face that you would later categorize in your notes as devastating. You could barely tear your eyes away from his, looking back down at the already healing injury.

That day, you sent Bucky away with a saline wash and a bandaid slapped onto the joint, knowing full well that he would be fine. You hoped that he wouldn’t come back with something stupidly bad for your heart, but no. 

He just came back with something stupid period. 

“Back in my day, people used to die from papercuts. Did the Aerospace Medical Training not teach you that, Doc?” he mocked you.

“Did you Google which training I got?” you rolled your eyes at him. “Didn’t know that you knew how to use search engines, Sarge.”

“I asked Sam, actually,” he grunted, almost like he didn’t even want to admit it to you. 

“You spoke to him. Good for you,” you said, pretending to look impressed. “Did you guys argue before he told you who trained me? Did he tell you that I graduated top of my class, too? While we’re on the topic, let me tell you that I also retired from the military with the highest of honors–”

“Can you shut the hell up and look at my injury before I die from some unknown disease?” he cut you off.

You held his pointer finger in your hand, glaring at the tip of it like the pad of it owed you something. “There’s nothing here, Buck.”

“Do you need glasses? Goggles, maybe? I’m sure Sam can hook you up with that,” he chuckled, clearly happy with himself for the jab.

You really tried to fight back the smile that threatened to creep up onto your face, but failed miserably. You couldn’t help it. You also made fun of Sam the first time you saw him in his hero uniform– sent the picture straight to his sister and the two of you spent a good two hours on the phone cackling in front of him.

“There’s no papercut,” you told him again, releasing his finger. “And even if there was– people don’t die from papercuts anymore. Of course, unless you’re not fully vaccinated. And at that point… I don’t know what to tell you. Are you not vaccinated, soldier?”

“I’m vaccinated against everything that exists,” he informed you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s the vaccine called? H.Y.D.R.A. serum?” you shot back.

His reply came just as quick. “Yes, actually.”

“Sounds like some good stuff– how many times did you have to get it for it to be this effective? Do I gotta get it once a year like a flu shot?” you joked. 

“Just once, but there were all these different side effects, doll. Like, frying my brain, my personal agency ripped from me for several decades, and insane amounts of trauma– crazy shit. Don’t recommend it. I’d stick to what the CDC pushes out to the regular civilians,” he said, and waved a dismissive hand in the air. 

You had to bite back a laugh, covering your mouth with a hand as you looked to the side. You weren’t even sure if you were allowed to laugh at his trauma laced up with a pretty bow. 

“It was funny, you gotta admit,” Bucky said, nodding to himself more than to you. When you looked back at him, there was a charming smile on his face, one that you couldn’t even believe that he had on at that moment.

“You are awful.”

“And I’m still at risk of dying from an infection. Sweetheart, you gotta get me right,” he told you, a hint of a Brooklyn accent peeking from under his words. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight tingle than ran through your entire being at the sound of his voice.

You cleared your throat, attempting to steel your mind and soul once more since your body clearly wasn't listening to you. “Didn’t you just tell me that you were immune to every disease possible?”

Bucky’s lips parted, and he cocked his head to the side as if he was trying hard to formulate an excuse. You waited patiently as you watched him shut his mouth, and look over to the side as if your closed medicine cabinets would give him some answers.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he settled with.

“Do you just come here for me to lick your wounds?” you asked, moving to go sit down at your desk. You couldn’t help but tease him a little. “Because I’m starting to think all you do is come here to waste my time.”

He shrugged, a little noncommittally. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to a friend.”

“A friend,” you echoed, a chuckle leaving you. 

“Yes, a friend,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow at you suspiciously. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I just– I didn’t realize that’s what we were,” you admitted.

Once more, the man in front of you paused. This time, there was a crease between his eyebrows as he looked at you, and his hands fell to his sides. Confusion was evident on his face. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, the start of a frown beginning to settle over his face.

The change in the air was clear. Colder, and even though he was right in front of you, he had felt farther away than he had ever been before. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you looked away from him, down at your desk in front of you. “We’ve worked together for years. You didn’t bother with me until three weeks ago, Bucky. Coworkers, yes. But friends? I didn’t think we were close enough for that.”

“You take care of the entire team as it is– was it wrong for me to try and take care of myself?” he defended himself.

Your gaze flitted over to him quickly, finding that he was leaning over one of your worktables, arms crossed in front of him. He was genuinely upset, you realized. You couldn’t figure out why. 

“No, Bucky– I’m just saying. You never even talked to me before,” you sighed, shaking your head. “At some point, I just gave up on communicating with you all together. If it weren’t for the fact you nodded at me during missions, then I would’ve fully believed that you just didn’t think I was there.”

“Of course I knew you were there,” he replied back instantly. “But you were busy. With everyone and everything else. Me and Steve heal faster than the rest of them, but you always seem to try and check up on us first.”

“Because you two never seem to take care of yourselves— it’s my job to take care of you,” you stressed to him. 

“I never asked you to do that for me!” he shouted at you.

You blinked at him, taken aback. Did he just yell at you?

 It took you a second to collect yourself, to be able to even look him in the eye without the last bit of your patience snapping. 

“It’s in my job description, just like it’s in yours to take care of me if I have to go out in the field for an evac, Barnes.”

“We’re going back to last names?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you. The edge in his voice was sharp, thick. It made you want to smack the attitude out his mouth. “So we really aren’t friends after all?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat. You brought your hands up to cover your face. “What the fuck is your issue with how I address you? Barnes is your name isn’t it?”

“Well, excuse me– I thought we were closer than that,” he said, spitting your words right back at you. 

You sucked in a deep breath before dragging your hands down your face to look at him without any obstruction.

“Okay, sure– then why did you ignore my existence for so fucking long despite us being on the same team? Even if you don’t need my help, it doesn’t explain you pretending I’m nothing but air around you up until recently,” you demanded from him. 

“I just– I didn’t want to add to your workload,” he told you, shaking his head.

“And you think that coming into my med bay with a fucking papercut isn’t increasing my workload? I have other shit to take care of,” you scoffed at him, voice laced with sarcasm. Your body felt the regret before your mind caught up with you– and you wanted to scream. The words had come out faster than you could stop it. 

Bucky’s body tensed, and his eyes dropped down to the metal table before him. His fingers tapped along it, a soft beat resounding against the silence as he nodded slowly, processing your words. Then, there was a wave of calm that rushed through him. His body loosened. Accepted your words as if they were scripture. 

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice softer, and his fingers stopped moving. He stood up tall, and didn’t look at you again. “I got the message. I won’t add to your busy plate. I know you have a lot going on.”

Bucky moved towards the doors. Something told you that he wouldn’t come back if you let him leave– even if he had some sort of grave injury. He would definitely try to take care of it himself.

There was a tightness in your chest that you wouldn’t be able to explain in medical terms. There were no heart palpitations or anxiety attacks. No, this was just you being a fucking asshole to him. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., lock the doors and frost the glass,” you ordered as fast as you could.

Bucky had to step back quickly, otherwise his foot would’ve gotten caught with how the doors came sliding shut. Finally, the soldier turned to look at you where you sat at your desk, frowning at him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. unlock the doors,” Bucky said, holding your gaze.

“I can’t do that, Sergeant,” she replied, making a sigh of relief exit your lips. 

“You stupid fucking A.I. —“

“We’re in my lab,” you interjected his words, running your hand through your hair. “Within these walls, she listens to me. Well, usually she does. I still need Tony to fuckin’ fix her and tell me who’s been sneaking past my shut down protocols to sneak presents into my rooms when I’m not around.”

Bucky tongued at his cheek as his eyes narrowed at you. “Thought we weren’t close. Why are you holding me hostage in your lab, sweetheart?”

You released a breath, and gave him a small, weak smile. One that you hoped looked sincere. You watched as Bucky’s exterior slowly melted away as he stared at you, and you let out a shaky breath.

“You’re not adding to my workload– I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” you whispered, still keeping your eyes locked onto his. “I like it when you come to visit me, even if it's for some stupid shit that I have to log into your file, but if you just wanted to be my friend– you don’t have to make up excuses to come and see me. You can just… come visit me.”

The silence was loud. You didn’t dare look away from him, afraid he would take it the wrong way if he did. Then, you saw it. A slight shake of his shoulders. 

The smallest of laughs escaped his lips, and he shook his head, chin tilting downwards to his chest until he was looking at his feet. You could see the slight tug of his lips, curling upwards into a smile.

“Activate Override: Protocol Doc authorized by White Wolf, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Bucky spoke.

You pushed out of your seat quickly, lips parting. You felt betrayal deep in your bones as you watched as the doors slid right open, and the glass turned clear once more– and there was a disastrous smile on Bucky’s face that stole the air from your lungs as he met your eyes.

“It was you–”

“We’re not gonna be friends, sweetheart,” he told you, a chuckle on his lips as he turned towards the door. “I don’t leave flowers and chocolate for my friends on their beds.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Flowers? I haven't gotten flowers!”

Bucky didn’t respond to you. The man just walked right out of the med bay, forgetting about the papercut injury that threatened his health, and left you with that fat piece of information to sit on. 

When you regained your senses, you rushed out towards the door, but it was useless. He was already gone. You couldn’t find him on either side of the hall. Your next stop was your bedroom, and just like Bucky said– there was a bouquet of fresh flowers waiting for you on the edge of your bed.

You could feel your blood pressure rising with each passing moment. 

The monitors mounted on the walls of the jet were blaring at you with different warning lights on each of the Avengers– showing you where each of them had sustained critical injury. Every few moments, an explosion went off, causing the aircraft to tremble with you inside of it.

“Can I get a status report?” you asked, eyes glued onto the screens.

Static crackled right back to you through your earpiece before it connected– you could hear the sounds of battle and gunfire. The sounds of the team shouting over each other to take cover, to watch each other’s six– it was too much. 

“Someone talk to me!” you shouted. “Do you need an evac?!”

“Stay put!” Steve barked on the other end. “It’s too dangerous for you to–”

The ground shook beneath the jet, toppling you over. The comms cut off into a buzzing silence as you hit the metal floors, your heart racing in your chest– that wasn’t just a mini explosion set off by Tony or Rhodey. That was something bigger. More lethal and heavy.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. get them back online!” you ordered as you scrambled to your feet, slamming your hands on the sides of the monitors to force them to reconnect with everyone’s suits. 

Slowly, the screens came back to life– and your stomach dropped through your body. Critical warnings were showing onto the screen before you. A gaping hole in the side of his torso that ripped through his gear. Foreign bodies were detected to have entered his skin– and the scans could barely show it but you were certain there were broken bones.

“Evac– Am I evacuating Bucky?” you demanded, trying to will your voice to stay even as you connected through the comms. 

Radio silence. The only noise that greeted you back was the sound of your own heart pumping wildly through your ears. 

You moved quickly, grabbing the keys to the motorbike that was docked at the end of the jet. There wasn’t any time to wait– not when the entire team was injured badly, and Bucky was potentially dying out in the middle of the field. You swung your leg over the seat, and removed the hooks that kept the bike in place–

You froze.

You had no information.

If you went out onto the field, you would be going into a warzone without any eyes or ears to let you know where to go. You’d be going in blind, creating more of a liability for the rest of the team to try and take care of while you pulled Bucky out of there. 

You had a failsafe. If they needed you to come out, and couldn’t reach you through the earpiece, then Tony would’ve contacted you through F.R.I.D.A.Y.. You had been instructed by Steve to stay put. Disobeying direct orders would put the entire mission, the team, and you at risk.

Your hands trembled as you rehooked the bike into place, and slowly unmounted the seat. All you could do was prep the examination table in the jet, pulling it from the middle of the floor, and grabbing out all the supplies that you could possibly need. 

All you could do was wait for the dust to settle, to watch the monitors for any more injuries that inevitably came– and pray to every higher being out there that Bucky’s heart didn’t give out before they brought him back to you.

Your earpiece crackled to life after what had seemed like an eternity. 

“Incoming!” Sam yelled, and you immediately moved to open the rear ramp. 

The shape that Sam was in– it made you want to throw up. His goggles were cracked, suit ripped in several different areas. This mission went sideways and been thrown upside down more times than you could’ve counted. 

But Bucky– he made your heart stop. His skin was nearly devoid of color, and blood fell down his body with each passing second in thick droplets. His lips were pale, dry, and cracked. Soot and ash caked onto his face, his hair sticking onto his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dirt. You didn’t even know where to start when you looked at him.

Sam dropped him onto the table, and you immediately took to his side, fingers pressing against the pulse point on his neck. It was faint, but there– but still wasn’t good enough for what you needed. 

“What happened?” you breathed out.

“Cap lost his shield– fucking RPG came out of nowhere. Bucky threw himself in front of it– blocked Steve from getting the blast, but he took the brunt of it,” Sam said, watching as you ripped open Bucky’s vest. 

Your eyes immediately fell on Bucky’s torso, your lips parting in shock. Shrapnel was buried deep into his side– but his body was already rapidly healing around it. You’d never seen this before– not with Bucky or Steve. This was different. Bucky’s body healed faster the more it was damaged.

“An RPG?” you whispered, meeting Sam’s eyes. 

Your hands were shaking. You didn’t see what happened, sure, but just from the looks of it– from what you were seeing in front of you? Bucky unconscious, the labored breaths, the blood seeping out from his side– the weapon that took him down– it was too much.

The flashbacks of everything were coming back to you. The failure, the fear–

“He’s still alive,” Sam cut through your thoughts, grabbing your wrist. “Don’t freak out on me now. We’re not back in the trenches. I need you to focus because Buck’s not the only one injured right now.”

As if on queue, everyone else started piling into the jet. A shaky breath exited your lips as you watched them limp on board, leaning onto each other and groaning in pain. For the most part– they were alive. They were doing much better than Bucky.

“How is he?” Steve asked, setting Natasha down onto the benches.

“He’s lost a lot of blood– Tony, we need to get back to base quick,” you told him, and watched as the man got out of his suit and assumed control over the front console. “I gotta get this shit out of his body before we get there– he’s healing around the metal.”

“How the hell are you gonna do that?” Sam asked, frowning at you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes darting around your supplies. “You guys are gonna need to hold him down… I don’t have any anesthetics on board.”

Both men froze in front of you, but they shifted to assume positions. Steve rested his hands on Bucky’s arms, pressing down firmly, while Sam held onto Bucky’s legs. You released a breath before you brought the scalpel to his torso– you needed to reinjure him. You needed to open him back up quickly to pull out every single foreign body within him otherwise it would only cause him some more issues.

“Starting,” you muttered out your warning.

Then, you cut into him.

Bucky’s body tensed immediately, eyes flying open as he jolted– Sam and Steve fighting to push him back down. His left arm immediately tried grabbing for you, only for Steve to readjust his grip to force Bucky back down.

“Shit– Buck! It’s just us!” Sam shouted at him, trying to get his attention. “You’re gonna fuckin’ hurt her if you don’t calm down!”

You could feel Bucky’s eyes land on you, the breaths coming out of his chest fast and uneven. Soon, he managed to fall limp under Steve and Sam’s hands, though his body still twitched as you dug into him, retrieving each and every single broken piece of metal within him.

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry,” you kept repeating to him, wincing as your tweezers dug deeper into the tissue– as you had to reach for the scalpel again to cut back into him. His body kept healing before your eyes. You hadn’t had to deal with this before. 

You could barely keep your hands from trembling. Every ounce of your concentration was going towards the task at hand, trying to pull out the smallest pieces of metal while also trying to make sure his wound didn’t heal too fast, but also trying to stop him from actively bleeding out on you– you were panicking.

It was too similar. Too close to home. It reminded you too much of what had happened back on the war field all those years ago when you lost Riley. There was nothing that you could have done to stop his pain after he went down. You were ill equipt– you didn’t have the right tools with you to help him. Your team was too far away from your headquarters, and it didn’t even matter how fast you got there. He was already gone.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Bucky’s hand cradled your face, the metal thumb brushing away a stray tear that fell.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he muttered to you, forcing his eyes open to look up at you. He offered you a small, weak smile. “I got that crazy vaccine, remember? I can’t just roll over and die so easily.”

“You’re going to die by my hands if you don’t shut the fuck up and save your energy,” you whispered back to him.

Despite the pain, he laughed on the table. He regretted the action a second later, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he struggled to catch his breath again, but you appreciated him all the same. He was attempting to make you feel better. And it worked.

Bucky’s hand dropped from your face, but it lingered on you. He rested it on your hip, squeezing you lightly whenever you had to cut back into him– a quiet move to let you know that he was okay and to keep doing what you were doing for him. 

With Bucky’s comfort, his touch– the light tap of his fingers against you– you managed to calm down your nerves well enough to get everything out of his body before the jet touched back down onto base. The second the doors opened, Steve and Sam were carrying him onto a stretcher for you to do your full assessment on him.

With how fast his body was healing, you needed to move rapidly– faster than you had ever done before. You didn’t have time to give him any numbing agents, despite how badly you wanted to. The fractures that the monitors had detected must be already attempting to set into place during the time that you were focused on his torso, and you really didn’t want to have to rebreak bone in order for him to heal properly. 

Even after Bucky was finished up, fully patched and stitched, you didn’t even allow him to leave. You managed to get him transferred from your table to a more comfortable hospital bed, then you drugged him to really make sure the man wouldn’t be able to walk out of your med bay. 

He was pumped with sedatives that you knew knocked out Steve, and you felt some sort of comfort when you watched Bucky fall asleep without pain etching into his features. While he slept, you had fluids pushing through his body, replenishing him while you moved on to take care of the rest of the team. 

Thankfully, they weren’t as bad as Bucky was.

You needed to push a collarbone back into place, reset a broken nose, stitch some wounds together– but nothing like pulling foreign bodies out of a torso. You could breathe easier. 

“You okay?” Sam asked you as you tugged the needle through his arm. 

“I think we should invest in a medical team,” you replied. “I think just having only one of me around isn’t cutting it anymore.”

Sam let out a small chuckle, and shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

Your hands paused over his arm, and you looked up at him. You met his gaze– he looked just as exhausted as you felt. Your eyes dropped back down to his injury, and you kept working.

“The hell are you talking about?” you murmured, even though you knew exactly what he was about to start on. 

“I haven’t seen you act like that since Riley got shot out of the sky,” he said softly. “Damn near thought you were gonna pass out on the jet.”

Your jaw clenched as you released a breath. “Sam…”

“It scared me, too– don’t get me wrong. It was… I’m glad you weren’t there to see how it all unfolded on the field.”

The words died down between you. You could only hear the light sound of the sutures being pulled through his skin as you punctured him repeatedly, gently closing the wound back into place. 

“On another note,” Sam spoke, breaking the silence, “Don’t think I missed the way that Robo-Cop held you on the jet–”

“We’re not talking about this right now–”

“And he called you sweetheart,” he whistled lowly, and you could hear the grin on his face without even looking at him. “Is there something you wanna tell me–”

A sharp cry exited his lips, cutting off his words as you dug the needle through him. Your eyebrows furrowed in feigned concern as your eyes flitted up to meet his gaze in mock apology.

“Haven’t heard you scream like that since Riley was around,” you mused, tilting your head at him. “You gonna pass out on the floor of my lab?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

This time around, Bucky wasn’t discharged back into regular duties for over two weeks. You put him on strict bedrest, even though he hated every single moment of it. Thankfully, the other members of the team snitched on him every time they found him roaming the halls near the training grounds, and you would immediately herd Bucky back into his room.

He told you that it was overkill. Subconsciously, you agreed. He didn’t need to be out of commission for that long, and he was honestly fine after a week and a half. You had already taken the stitches out of his body. X-Rays showed that his bones had healed the right way, and he had made a full recovery. 

You were still worried. You couldn’t shake the memory— having to continuously cut into him, him bleeding in front of you… It really did mess you up, more than you wanted to admit. 

One look from you made Bucky concede, and follow your wellness plan without another complaint. 

However, it didn’t stop Bucky from bringing you gifts. Except he hand delivered it to you now, rather than leaving it in your room like some sort of off season Santa Claus. 

Bucky sat on the bench beside you, watching you open up the little package. He wasn’t even around you the other day when you said you’d been having a hard time sleeping recently, and now? You had lavender incense and some candles– peach scented. Along with the aromas, he also presented you with a small plush toy.

“How the hell did you know that I like Miffy?” you asked, raising your eyebrow at him. “Scratch that– how do you even know what Miffy is?”

Bucky shrugged beside you. “You’re not the only one that notices everything.”

“So you just… never talked to me, but you remembered everything I ever said? Even when you weren’t in the same room as me?” you mused. You took out the small bunny toy and placed it on your desk like a little guardian watching over your med lab. You tapped on its head, a smile coming onto your face. 

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while, doll,” he said, as if it was old news. “I just didn’t really know how to approach.”

“So you thought depositing a gun in my room was the best way to approach me?” you questioned, turning to look at him. 

Bucky paused, the words going over his mind and filtering through. The man took a slow, deep breath before meeting your gaze. Then, he smiled. That same smile that made you go weak and dizzy in the head. “Kinda romantic, right?”

The sheer audacity of him made you roll your eyes, a scoff falling from your lips not too long afterwards. Even so, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile. You did have to admit it– fine. It was a little romantic. 

“And here I thought, we were gonna be friends,” you teased lightly.

“I told you, sweetheart– we’re not gonna be friends,” he shook his head.

“Oh? Then what are we going to be?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Lovers,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer. “Do you think I just take my shirt off and tell you to look at a contusion without any ulterior motives?”

“You keep saying it was a contusion to make it sound worse than it actually was, but it was literally a bruise, Bucky,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You’re sick in the head for that.”

“And you’re a pervert,” he accused. “I could feel you staring at me. Don’t tell me that you weren’t.”

“I’m the pervert?” you repeated, eyebrows up to your hairline.

Bucky hesitated for just a second as he looked at you. His eyes roamed over your face for a few moments, then he shrugged. “Well, I don’t think I can really say much. I really liked seeing you on your knees that one day.”

You slapped his arm, the smack resounding off the walls of your lab, quickly followed by the rumble of his laughter. You stood up, needing to take a second to get away from him as heat crawled back up your neck and threatened to appear on your face. 

“And I thought you were a gentleman,” you huffed, moving to turn towards your workbench.

Bucky’s hands caught your wrist, pulling you back towards him. The action was so smooth– so quick, but so gentle all at the same time. You found yourself standing between his knees, barely any space between your bodies as he looked up at you. His hands slid down from your wrists to rest into your hands, lacing your fingers together.

“I can be a gentleman, sweetheart,” he told you, the softness of his voice matching the look in his eyes. “Is that what you want from me?” 

“You… are on bedrest, soldier,” you warned.

“What do you mean?” The corners of Bucky’s lips curled upwards slightly. “I’m not doing anything– is there something that you want me to be doing?”

Maybe you were the pervert after all.

All Bucky was doing was sitting there before you, looking up at you with those blue eyes that seemed to hold the world, and a soft smile on his face like you had given him that world– and you were coming undone. 

Was there something that you wanted him to be doing to you? Absolutely. You.

“Something about the way you’re looking at me right now tells me you don’t want me to be a gentleman right now,” he murmured to you, releasing one of your hands in favor of reaching up for your face.

“You spend too much time watching me if you can tell what my thoughts are just from looking at me,” you whispered back. You leaned into his touch, allowing him to pull you down into him until your forehead rested against his.

“You were mine before you even realized it, doll.” 

“Could’ve just hit on me sooner, y’know. Didn’t have to come here asking me to look at papercuts—”

“Shut up,” he sighed, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to close the remainder of the distance between you two. 

You could feel the smile on his lips against your own as he kissed you, tugging you impossibly closer to him. Your hands flattened against his chest for stability, a soft hum escaping your throat. 

Bucky’s teeth caught at your bottom lip, dragging down lightly until you willingly granted him the entry he was asking for. His tongue glided over yours, the hand at the back of your head pressing you deeper into him. 

He tasted sweet— like plums with a hint of syrup. You wanted more of it, wanted to consume him and his entire being into you. Thankfully, it seemed like he felt the same way. 

You found yourself fully situated on his lap, legs framing his hips. One of his arms looped around your waist, hand pressed onto your upper back to hold you against him as he kissed you harder. A sigh fell from your lips, one that he greedily swallowed up for himself. 

He pulled away, but didn’t stray too far. 

Bucky peppered kisses down your jawline and neck. You could only tilt your head to the side, giving him the space to play with whatever he wanted. 

“You’re so soft, sweetheart,” he murmured against your neck— right before he sucked a bruise right onto your skin. 

You forced back a gasp, your body tingling and screaming under his touch. He pressed his lips against the wound, tongue gently lapping over to soothe. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.—“ you called out, cut off by another nip of his teeth on your neck. You swallowed thickly, trying to get your bearings as you buried your hands into his hair, tugging him away from you to give you some space to think. 

“Yes, doctor?” the A.I. spoke, waiting for your instruction. 

You were breathless, just from one kiss and two hickeys. Bucky stared up at you, eyes filled with innocence, lips slightly swollen from the kiss you shared with him. From where your other hand rested, you could feel his heartbeat thrumming against his neck. 

“Block the glass, lock the doors, and turn the lights down. If anyone asks for me, I’m not here,” you ordered. 

“Understood.”

The room dimmed around you, and all doors slid shut. The glass and windows in your med bay turned to frost, while the blinds and curtains quickly got drawn shut. On the outside— it looked like you weren’t in. 

“Turning the lights down, doll?” Bucky whispered to you, a hint of tease in his voice. “Creating a mood for us?”

“Be quiet,” you muttered, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Bedrest. Now.” 

“Something tells me that this isn’t the same bedrest you prescribed,” he whispered.

“You don’t want me, soldier?” you asked, tugging on his hair again. 

A low groan escaped his lips, and his eyes shut for a second. You watched how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t put words in my mouth, sweetheart.”

Bucky stood, carrying you with him as he crossed the room. He laid you down onto one of the recovery beds in your lab— the same beds that you would nap on if you ever spent too much time working. You were certain that Bucky knew that about you, too. 

His weight gently blanketed you as his lips caught yours again. Bucky slotted himself between your legs as if he’d always belonged there, like there was no place that he should’ve ever been. You wrapped your arms around his neck, a soft moan pulled from your lips as his hands dipped under the hem of your shirt, seeking skin. 

The contrast of the cool, smooth metal against the warm, calloused texture of his organic hand was enough to make your head spin. His hands continued their journey, fingers stopping just at the edge of your bra. 

“Is this okay?” he muttered against your lips. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s okay, Buck.”

He exhaled slowly, breath mingling with yours as his hands ventured beneath the last piece of clothing. He cupped the mounds, feeling the weight of you, and cursed under his breath.

“Fuck– I might die,” he whispered, massaging your breasts slowly.

“What?” you breathed out, trying to focus on his words as his fingers caught the hardening peaks of your nipples. 

“I might die, sweetheart,” he repeated to you, eyes glued to your chest even though he couldn’t see anything from the layers of fabric over his hands.

“You’re not allowed to. I want you inside me.”

Bucky’s eyes shot up to you, brain malfunctioning for a second. Then, he dropped his head down to your neck. He was trying to catch his breath– and you hadn’t even done anything to him. This reaction was purely from your words, from just touching one part of you.

“I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman here,” he murmured against your skin.

You huffed, reaching between the two of you. Bucky’s body twitched as you undid the tie of his sweatpants, loosening the fabric around his waist. Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of the fabric, feeling him waiting for you. 

“You can be a gentleman while you fuck me,” you murmured, taking him in your hand. A low moan filled your ears as you began to stroke him– the hard, heavy length of him. 

You could feel his resolve breaking apart with every single slow pump of your hand. Bucky groaned into your neck with each of your movements, his hips pressing deeper into your hand as if to assist you. 

You could feel him throb in your hand, a thick vein coming to life against your palm. You took him from the very tip, thumb brushing over the head of him and smearing over the bead of precum that leaked over, and ran it all the way down to the base of him. 

Part of you thought it was a waste. You wanted to lick it up– swallow whatever leaked out of him. You wondered if you would be able to convince him to let you get down on your knees again for him.

Bucky didn’t even give you a chance to entertain the idea any farther. His hand gripped at your wrist, pulling your hand out of his pants as he sat up. His chest was rising and falling in slow, barely even breaths as he stared down at you.

The softness you saw earlier was gone. It was replaced with hunger, desire– you were about to be consumed by him. A tingle ran throughout your body, going straight down into your core as he reached for the buttons of your pants.

He moved slowly, peeling the fabric off of you like you were a present to unbox. Bucky even unlaced your boots, gently removing them and resting them onto the floor neatly before he was able to remove the rest of your pants. You could only watch with bated breath as he folded it, and put it on the bedside table, then turned back to you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, already shifting downwards onto the bed. “So pretty.”

He parted your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders before pressing a featherlight kiss to the inside of your thigh. He continued forth, more kisses trailing upwards towards where you need him most, but you couldn’t dare breathe a word to rush him– not when he was holding you like you were something precious, not when he was pressing kisses against your skin that felt more sincere than anything you’d ever heard before. 

“Do you like these panties?” he asked you, glancing up to your face.

“They’re comfortable,” you answered, resting up onto your elbows to look at him.

“You have more?”

“Yeah–”

The sound of fabric ripping filled your ears, then you watched as he chucked the ruined article to the side like it meant nothing. You didn’t even have a chance to say a word before his mouth closed around your heat, taking you in. Your head dropped back against the pillows, a shaky moan escaping your lips as his tongue flatted against you, then parted your folds. 

Bucky groaned at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut like you were the best thing he had ever had. His hands tightened around your hips, tugging you closer to his face– trying to drown himself in you as his tongue nudged at your entrance, just barely dipping in and out. His nose brushed against your swollen clit, and your legs trembled around his head.

“Bucky–” you moaned, hands reaching for his.

His fingers laced with yours, and he hummed in acknowledgement. The vibrations only made your hips twitch against him, lifting off the bed and up into his face. You couldn’t help it– you were chasing the pleasure that he was giving you just with his tongue alone. 

Bucky’s thumbs brushed against the back of your hand in quiet encouragement– as if to tell you to let go whenever you wanted to. You wouldn’t be the one to deny him, not when he was giving it to you so deliciously. 

You came apart with his name on your lips, his head between your legs, and his fingers intertwined with yours. Bucky kept lapping up your arousal, desperate to not let a single drop go to waste. 

“Buck– shit– too much,” you gasped out, trying to wiggle yourself away from him.

A soft grunt came from him, but he relented. He came up for fresh air, licking his lips as he did. You caught the way your own slick glistened against his chin, how he looked so satisfied with himself– Jesus. It was a sight to behold. 

“Need you,” you whispered. 

“I’m all yours,” he replied. 

Bucky lowered himself back onto you without another second to waste. You could taste yourself on his tongue– the saltiness mixed with sweet. You craved more of him– all of him. You nearly cried out in relief when you felt him tug down the fabric of his sweats, pooling them around his knees.

You both moaned into each other's mouths as his cock pressed against your folds. Slowly, his hips moved, covering himself in your juices, the tip of his length nudging and catching on your clit every few moments. A shaky breath fell from his lips as you angled your hips just slightly, and his length caught slightly on your entrance. 

Very slowly, he stretched you out. Neither of you could say a word– you could hardly breathe as you took him in. You felt every single ridge and vein of his dick entering you, splitting you open and forcing you to learn the shape of him. 

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned above you, hips fully flushed against yours.

You could only nod in silent agreement, barely meeting his eyes. His breathing was labored as he looked down at you, eyes roaming all over your body before landing back onto your face. Bucky reached for you, and pulled your shirt up over your chest, taking your bra with it.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, grinding his hips against yours before he started at a slow pace. His hands ran up and down your torso, as if he was trying to memorize every part of you, catching every single contour of your shape. 

“You– you’re pretty, too,” you barely managed to force out as his thrusts naturally picked up speed, his cock dragging in and out of you in deep, hard strokes. 

Something mixed with a chuckle and a low moan ripped from this throat as he smiled down at you. Again– absolutely catastrophic. You couldn’t help but clamp down around him at the sight, and felt as his hips stuttered against yours. 

“You think I’m pretty, sweetheart?” he whispered, falling back into rhythm quickly. He found purchase at your waist, pulling you into him with each thrust, meeting you halfway– the pressure he was building was making you go insane.

“Mm– mmhm,” you nodded frantically, reaching to grab onto his wrists– his biceps– something to hang onto as he picked up the pace. “Your arms– fuck your arms are so pretty, Buck.”

“Knew you liked ‘em,” he chuckled, hips snapping into yours harder than before. A sharp cry ripped from you, as you dug your nails into him. “I always feel you staring, especially the left one. You really like this one, huh?”

Excitement shot through your body as you felt his vibranium hand trail up and close around your neck. Even against the dimmed lights of the med bay, the onyx and gold detailing still shimmered like stars against your eyes. You couldn’t help it– your walls clenched around him, fluttering madly.

You didn’t even need to warn him. Bucky’s efforts doubled in an instant, his cock hitting you deeper with renewed fervor. His other hand slipped between the two of you, fingers beginning to rub tight circles into your swollen clit. His metal hand tightened, just ever so slightly around your neck– and you were done for.

Bucky groaned out your name as you came on his cock, legs twitching on either side of his hips as he continued to fuck you through your high. It was too much, yet still not enough at the same time.

“Gonna– god, I’m close,” he grunted, his hands migrating towards your hips as he chased his own climax, using your body. “You’re so– fuck, you’re so warm, doll. So warm and wet and so fuckin pretty–”

His own words were cut off, your name falling from his lips once more in a choked out moan as his hips faltered against yours. You could feel his cock inside of you, trembling and pulsating as he emptied himself within you, painting you with a warmth that made you shiver beneath him. 

Bucky caught himself before he collapsed over you, forearms caging you on either side of your head. His breath fanned against your face as his forehead rested against yours. You tilted your head upwards, pressing a kiss to his lips– one that he returned right away. He kissed you slowly, moving against you with unhurried passion, just reverence and affection.

Slowly, his cock softened within you. The two of you sighed against each other as you felt him slip out. You could feel the remnants of him leaking out of you and onto the bed, but you would deal with it later. For now, all you could focus on was Bucky’s lips and the kisses he pressed all over your face.

Before long, Bucky carried you onto another bed– one that wasn’t soiled by your sinful activities. The two of you naturally shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, you tucked into Bucky’s chest with his arms thrown around you. 

“You still think we’re friends?” he whispered into your hair. You could hear the smile in his voice, and you nudged yourself deeper into his warmth.

“I’m gonna put you on bedrest for another two weeks,” you warned, though there was no edge to your voice. In fact, it came out a little sleepy. “You’re obligated to report to me daily in the med bay.”

“You’re threatening me with a good time, sweetheart,” he chuckled, squeezing you tighter against him. 

“That’s the point,” you muttered, settling into him. “You like my version of bedrest.”

Bucky didn’t argue with you, but you already knew that he wouldn’t. The soldier pressed another kiss to your hairline, then shifted to cradle your face, angling your head upwards towards him. His lips met yours once more in a brief peck– just to let you know that he agreed with your treatment plan. 

masterlist | bonus headcanon

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[clarkbarnes]